


Plausible Deniability

by Chaosandgunpowder



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Blow Jobs, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fuckbuddies, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, I mean really, M/M, Modern Era, Pining, Porn With Plot, Thomas is a little bit clueless, an overwhelming lack of communication, and sucking dick mostly the other half, he's on the verge of a breakdown half the time, like a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 146,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27206128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaosandgunpowder/pseuds/Chaosandgunpowder
Summary: Plausible Deniability;[art form]1a. A condition in which a subject can safely and believably deny knowledge of any particular truth that may exist because the subject is deliberately made unaware of said truth so as to benefit or shield the subject from any responsibility associated through the knowledge of such truth.1b. The ability to deny any involvement in specific activities, because there is no clear evidence to prove involvement. The lack of evidence makes the denial credible, or plausible.1c. An unsuccessful coping mechanism with which to strategically avoid any open, honest conversation in which one might possibly be rendered horrifically vulnerable.1d. See Image; Alexander Hamilton.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 256
Kudos: 210
Collections: fave fics for mental hellness





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay; so we're doing this.  
> Mostly because I need to stop obsessively re-writing and constantly going over shit I've already written and post it so that I am able to move past it and work on actually writing more of it.  
> Here's the thing - if you're with me for mob!verse, SORRY. Me starting to post this is actually a good thing, because I wrote _we don't need a globe_ as a short little side-project, thinking I'd come back to this when I was done. That was two months and five more installments ago, and so I think I won't be done for a while, so let's just try working on both at once. It does mean shit will be slower. But it also means I've given up on thinking I'm going to give up on mob!verse anytime soon.  
> Here's the other thing - if you're here for mob!verse, you might not be into this. I took a break from this to write _globe_ , to write something succinct and concise and basically see how much story I could fit into as few words as possible. Y'all, this is NOT that, ha. I won't be offended if this is not your bag. Just stick around for mob!verse, that's cool. We're not done there either.  
> Here's the last thing - this is definitely not how businesses work. Fuck it. Don't fight me.

Alex blinks wearily, warily eyes the absolute garbage he’s just put on paper and tangles his fingers in his hair in frustration; they snag roughly on knots made the previous six or so times he’d done it and he pulls ineffectively, not sure whether he’s trying to undo them or use the tiny pinpricks of pain to focus his thoughts. He tugs harder.

There’s something there, he’s sure. Something niggling just out of reach that he knows would be genius if he could only get at it. Something that would tie all of these numbers together if he could only tease it apart, write it out again and again and over and over in different ways, from all angles until he untangles it right out of his head into existence, into something brilliant. It has to be brilliant, this consolidation proposal. Nothing but brilliance will stand up to Jefferson’s precise, razor-sharp brand of ripping-things-to-fucking-shreds-for-fun. 

_(”Constructive criticism, Hamilton. I’m honestly surprised you’ve not heard of it before with the state of the work you produce.”_

_“I severely doubt you’d be able to send a marginally coherent email without spellcheck working unpaid overtime for you, so I suppose I can forgive you for not realizing that we don’t all need your help to do our fucking jobs, Jefferson.”_

_“Gentlemen, please.”)_

Constructive criticism Alex’s fucking _ass_. That asshole will publicly tear this thing apart the first chance he gets; go on the attack in order to defend himself, make it look terrible in order to vehemently justify not signing off on something that works against his own, elitist agenda. Alex can’t have that. He needs this thing in place. He needs it perfect. He needs it to solve issues not on an individual, independent basis but on a company wide scale. He needs a system in place that will actually keep them afloat. He needs it to make sure they stop leaking money like a punctured tire. And he needs it to be so airtight that Thomas Jefferson gives himself a fucking hernia trying to pick it apart.

Not necessarily in that order of importance. 

Oh, and he needs it by tomorrow afternoon’s board meeting. 

He flicks a quick glance at the clock. 

_Scratch that_. This afternoon’s board meeting.

No pressure.

There _shouldn’t_ be any pressure, Alex thinks bitterly, pushes his fingers into his eyes until spots burst behind his eyelids, chastises himself because he should have been able to have it finished by now, even as he knows Washington’s aware of how much time he’s putting into it, doesn’t necessarily expect him to have it all wrapped up. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t expect it of _himself_ because he knows if this thing isn’t finished, if he can’t appropriately defend it from every possible angle of attack it might face, then he can’t present it. Not as a _draft_. He’ll give away far too much of what he intends; he’ll give Jefferson an entire quarter until his next opportunity to propose it. An entire three months to mount far too much of a defense to the incomplete document in his hands, because though Alex would never say it to his smug, arrogant face, Jefferson is smart enough to give Alex a vicious fight if he knows enough about what he’s fighting against. 

Alex has never been above springing things on the man in order to get the approvals he needs before Jefferson really has time to dig into his agenda deep enough to come up with an argument against it. 

He can’t present this shit; that much is clear, because Alex needs it in place too badly. He _needs_ them to consolidate their company finances if he’s ever going to get any fucking sleep, or any of his time back _at all_. Over eighteen months into trying to create something better here, and they’re not a bunch of satellite companies owned by a giant conglomerate anymore, they’re departments of the _same fucking company_ , with people that are actually supposed to give a shit being in charge and _it’s still a mess_. There’s no good reason that each of those departments should still have their own set of accounts and finance managers like they’re still independent, their own ingoings and outgoings, their own credit and debt built up, their own money that had to be shifted around all the damn time until it was where it needed to be elsewhere in the company every damn month - because who’s fucking job did _that_ wind up being - as well as actually budgeting and tracking every fucking cent. There’s no reason that Alex should be up until the early hours every other week, carefully balancing over seventy different bank accounts all now belonging to the same damn company so that each of those individual financial managers had what they needed, not when every fucking budgetary decision comes through _him_ in the end anyway. No good goddamn reason for Alex to be wasting all that time when he could be- 

Well, he could be doing a million other things with it. _Making_ them some fucking money, for one, putting it into savings and investments and stocks that he keeps pushing for but doesn’t typically have the loose, readily available income to sink into them, not without pulling it out bit by bit from here and there like painfully pulling teeth. He could be doing his damn job; making sure the idiots Washington has running their operations aren’t spending what they don’t have. He could be reading more. He could be _writing more_. He could be changing the world. He could be getting laid. He could be sleeping.

He probably still wouldn’t be sleeping, but it’s the principle of the thing; getting this approved would just make Alex’s life so much easier. 

Besides, merging all of their subsidiaries’ funds into several centralized, core accounts with someone carefully monitoring them all instead of each offshoot having their own set of funds was the only sane way to ensure they didn’t go out of business. It was the only way to properly tell if they even _were_ going out of business, because it takes far too fucking long for Alex to even answer the question _how much money do we have available right now_ and that shouldn’t be the case. 

_(“Hah! ‘Someone’, he says. Funny how that would end up being you, isn’t it.”_

_“It's already my job to manage our shitshow of a financial team, Jefferson. That isn't a reason for you to be petty enough to be incapable of recognizing this as the best course of action.”_

_This didn’t endear his initial idea to many. Purely because it appeared that nobody liked being called a shitshow, even if it was appallingly true.)_

Bottom line; Alex can’t present this. It’s not finished. It _needs_ to be finished. But it’s not, and his mind can't settle between _it's not done_ and _it needs to be_ and _what to do what to do what to do_ and now was an absolutely brilliant time to get stuck in this feedback loop, breath catching quick in his chest as he tries to focus on just one thought, one thing. _Maybe if I- could possibly- what if- accumulating debt-_

He taps his fingers restlessly on the desk to absolutely no rhythm, stuttering staccato to match his heartbeat, a sub par outlet for the sudden energy thrumming in his veins or the ideas moving too quick and too fleeting through his head to be able to pinpoint any of them with any actual clarity, even though he knows they’d all be worth recording. They’d all be worth _something_ at some point to him in the future but he just can’t focus enough on one thing to get anything out, and he’s struck with that horribly familiar feeling that he’s missing all these thoughts, will possibly never think of them again, lost to the recesses of his mind if he can’t get them down on paper _right fucking now_ and it happens too fucking often, mind moving too quickly for his mouth or his fingers to keep up with, stirring up panic in his gut and his heart and his fingers at how he’s squandering all those clever ideas, wasting precious time doing _absolutely fucking nothing-_

Alex hurls his pen across the room in frustration, drops his head into shaking hands and pulls at his own hair again, wishes it wasn’t close to half past one in the morning, partly because he’s fucking tired, and partly because if it was a normal, human time to be in the office, then Jefferson would be down the hall and Alex could go and argue with him until he feels better. Until he feels clearer, however long that might take. Jefferson’s pretty good at keeping up with Alex in most debates. Alex would lie like a whore in church if outright asked but he does occasionally enjoy going toe-to-toe with his colleague. It keeps his brain fresh and alive, that clash of wits. And if he ever utilizes Jefferson’s opinion that he’s a hotheaded little shit who shouldn’t be taken seriously, if he ever plays it up just a little bit to start a fight and gather some idea of what position the man might take on a certain topic in a board meeting, what points he might let slip while insulting Alex so that Alex can go away and plan to appropriately defend against such opinions in depth, well. 

That’s Jefferson’s own fault for running his mouth as much as he claims Alex does.

It’s not an intelligent, if aggressive, debate he’s craving right now though. Nor is it a savvy grab for intel. No, what Alex needs right now to calm that raging swirl of unreachable thoughts is a good screaming match. With energy tingling in his fingers and toes and in his thundering heart and sweaty palms and racing mind and in the very blood of him, he can’t sit still and think even remotely rationally about this problem. Screaming himself hoarse that Jefferson is a _goddamn piece of shit backward-thinking arrogant motherfuckstick with an antique silver spoon rammed so far up your ass you can probably taste the 1700s when you swallow_ is a kind of blissful catharsis Alex can’t replicate beyond being tied down and fucked so hard he forgets his own name, never mind whatever happens to be stressing him out. 

He abruptly imagines how the exacting, perfectionist, _bossy_ Jefferson might help him out in that situation instead, if the guy didn’t look at Alex like a dirty street urchin, and he must be more hard up than he’d thought right now because he thinks it would probably be decent, because he might be an insufferable prick but he’s got the attitude and the bulk to give Alex a damn good going - until he opens his mouth and insults Alex, that is - and promptly breaks out into a coughing fit. 

It doesn’t help with his breathing. 

_[A.Ham]_ \- I can’t fucking think  
_[Jack]_ \- Not now thx  
_[A.Ham]_ \- Real question  
_[A.Ham]_ \- Will they postpone the meeting if I jump off a bridge?  
_[Jack]_ \- NOT. NOW.  
_[Jack]_ \- *BUSY* [emoji]  
_[A.Ham]_ \- CHRIST WHY ARE YOU REPLYING THEN  
-  
-  
-  
_[Jack]_ \- Did u say real question  
_[Jack]_ \- Like fr  
_[Jack]_ \- cuz could u not jump off a bridge plz  
_[A.Ham]_ \- A small one, obviously  
_[A.Ham]_ \- Non-fatal. Not an idiot.  
_[Jack]_ \- I don’t know if ur 100% joking

The clock ticks helpfully on, reminding Alex that it’s now nearly two. He’s wasted nearly an entire half hour of time that he could have been doing something with his head pressed against his desk, trying not to hyperventilate. He needs more time. He should have said yes to John when he’d had the chance, when John had proposed drinks, music and a recreational pick-me-up. Alex should have just fucking _gone_ if he wasn’t going to get this shit finished anyway, if he was just going to sit here with dread pooling in his gut, mingling with the thrum of anxiousness to churn up the coffee he’d mainlined all evening to the point where he thinks he might throw up. 

_[Jack]_ \- Stop freaking. W/E you present will be better than Burr anyway.  
_[Jack]_ \- Yawn

Momentary offense floods through Alex at the low bar. _Et tu, Brute_. Of course it would be better. Alex could literally serve up a fresh turd on a bagel and it would be better than whatever Burr slung up on powerpoint. He huffs, glares at his computer spluttering to bright life in his dim office, stinging his eyes as he pulls his socked feet up to wedge them in tight, sits cross legged on his office chair as he runs through the agenda. He looks for last minute, desperate inspiration that he can’t seem to find among the scheduled updates; Burr’s legal, Alex’s financial, Jefferson’s operational, and _for fucks sake_ , of course the open floor for strategy proposals - for the one everyone _knows_ Alex has been working on for the last six fucking months - comes _after Jefferson_ , and after he’s had plenty of time to piss Alex off already, no doubt talking shit and rolling his eyes all the way through Alex’s financial updat-

Wait. 

* * *

_[A.Ham]_ \- I have a plan. All good.  
_[Jack]_ \- Ominous  
_[Jack]_ \- Is it legal  
_[Jack]_ \- Should I b worried  
_[Jack]_ \- Do I need to warn someone of incoming PR nightmare  
_[Jack]_ \- LEX  
_[Jack]_ \- u r the worst istg

* * *

Four hours. _Four fucking hours_. Thomas slams his way out of the boardroom in a foul mood. He’d had to sit there in that cheap, plastic uncomfortable fucking chair while Hamilton talked for _four hours straight_ about the financial ins and outs of each individual damn company they own so throughly that they’d called it woefully short before Thomas had even managed to _start_ his update. Not that Hamilton obviously gave a fuck about letting anyone else speak. Ever. 

He collapses onto the extra chair in James’ office with an infuriated groan. “I can’t- I just- how did he manage _four fucking hours_.”

James gives him a pointed look over the top of his glasses as he sits wearily behind his desk, looking for all the world like he’d rather Thomas had carried on down the hall, which is unfair. This is not Thomas’s fault. “I feel like it would probably have been closer to two, had you not insisted on interrupting him every ten minutes and making him start over again each time.”

Okay, maybe it’s a little bit Thomas’s fault. 

James is exaggerating, though. After the third _because of that rude interruption, Director Jefferson, I can’t remember where I was. I’ll have to start over_ , Thomas had taken mercy on Washington, who had been rubbing his eyes every fifteen minutes and instead had started _politely_ raising his hand when he wanted to speak. Purely out of courtesy, obviously, though Hamilton had hurled pens at his head each and every time. By hour three Washington had dropped his own head into his hands and Thomas had wondered aloud _how many pens you could possibly have hidden in that creased-ass thrift-store excuse for a suit_. Hamilton had looked like he might burst a blood vessel. Then he’d inhaled deeply, and begun again from the top. 

Still, two hours is still an unreasonably, inhumanely, _impolite_ length of time to speak for, and Thomas had at given it at least half an hour before he’d realized that Hamilton wasn’t about to stop any time soon and really started in on him and some of his budget calculations. James doesn’t seem impressed when he relays this exceptional demonstration of his restraint. 

“What on earth did you expect?” he asks, exasperated. “He’s like one of those wind up cars, just twist him up and watch him go, _and you know this_. You told him he’d not accounted enough funds for that new construction project. Where did you pull that from without evidence? What were you _thinking_?”

Honestly, he hadn’t been. At that point he’d just wanted to watch Hamilton’s face turn purple, because Thomas was pissed off and wanted that revisited on the cause of his frustration, though he hadn’t quite considered how it might lead to a good thirty-five minute off-topic tirade questioning where exactly on the internet Thomas had gotten his finance degree from. _Oh wait, you don’t have one. Therefore your opinion is irrelevant, thanks for contributing, try again next time._

“He’s just so-”

“ _Thomas._ For Christ’ sake. Did you just follow me in here to sit and talk about Hamilton? I want to go _home_. I have plans. Plans that don’t include him. Because we just spent four hours being talked at _by_ the man, and I really think that’s enough for today.” He pauses and steeples his fingers thoughfully. “For _me_ at least, I know you could go for hours-”

They’ve been friends for too long, clearly, because James doesn’t say _get out_ , like he thinks that might actually work, he takes a tack he knows will be more successful in getting Thomas to leave him alone and damned if it isn’t, if Thomas isn’t up and out of his office and spitting out _oh fine, enjoy your damn date night_ in under thirty seconds, desperately keen not to get into another round of _how about you fuck him mute and do us all a favor,_ because that’s really not the Hamilton-bashing conversation he’s looking to have today.

Or ever again, preferably. 

James calls _don’t be a bitter harpy_ after him as he slams that door, too. 

* * *

It’s as he’s on his way back to his own office, vague plans of packing his own things and spending a depressing evening mooching in his apartment by himself because _James is busy_ and he’s too annoyed to spend time with anyone he’d have to be remotely polite to, that Thomas sees Hamilton, hip leaning up against the wall next to the copy machine while he yawns absently, watching the lights on the machine flicker back and forth as it works. He’s lost his jacket and the band holding his hair back, arms folded loosely over his chest, white shirt stretching tight at his excessively pointy elbows, one of his ankles crossed over the other and Thomas can see his mismatched socks where his hems ride up. He looks more relaxed than Thomas has seen him in weeks, and it’s unfair, because he’s spent the last four hours giving Thomas a migraine and that’s probably what possesses him to go over there in the first place. 

Hamilton tips his head back to _thunk_ against the wall with a heavy, dramatic exhale and a groan as he approaches. “What do you want, Jefferson?”

 _To fuck you mute_ , Thomas thinks before he can help it, distracted by the column of his throat into honesty for once - if only with himself, and he wishes James hadn’t said it that one time, because it’s too appealing a notion until he shakes it away and remembers who he’s talking to. _To throttle you with your own tie, to shake you until you can manage to say something reasonable, to slap that cocky look off your annoying little face, preferably with my-_

“To ask what you get out of being so goddamn _contrary_ all the time.” He doesn’t actually know what he’d intended to say when he stormed over here, just intent on giving Hamilton a headache to match the one creeping in behind his own eyes, but that’s as good and honest as anything else. Hamilton smirks up at him. 

“I get off on winding you up, obviously.” 

“And to the sound of your own voice, clearly.”

“Hey, at least I’ll never be short on material then.” 

He winks sarcastically, makes an half an obscene gesture even though they’re in the middle of the damn public office space, because he’s got no sense of decorum, rolls his eyes when Thomas raises an eyebrow and tells him that. Hamilton says _it’s not like we missed out on much is it_ with terrible, feigned innocence when Thomas suggests they might have gotten through the meeting if Hamilton liked hearing himself speak just a little less, and Thomas _does_ want to throttle him, he decides. He imagines wrapping a hand around his creased, crooked tie and pulling until he chokes, and more importantly, shuts up so that _someone else might get to talk for once._

“-oh, were _you_ due to speak too? I didn’t realize you were so eager to get to it, what with how you kept wanting to contribute to _my_ piece.” 

“Because you kept talking out of your ass-”

“-and I’ll say it for you _again_ , Jefferson, show me numbers that _prove_ I’m wrong.”

“ _Oh my fucking God, do you ever stop_?”

“Stop what?”

Thomas groans in frustration. “I don’t know, _everything_.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” Hamilton laughs once, genuine amusement and enjoyment crossing his shrewd face as he gathers his papers. “Not that this hasn’t been a _delight_ , as always, Director Jefferson, but I need to get on.”

“Hamilton it’s Friday night, go home.”

“You’re not my real dad,” Hamilton shoots back absently over his shoulder. 

Thomas considers this for a second and then follows, ignores the few people still milling around on their way out of work for the week favoring him mild glares or exasperated sighs. Their colleagues were all now used to the two of them clashing loudly at all hours of the day, and most had originally seemed to recognize it as Hamilton’s incredible inability to be at all reasonable, but lately _he’s_ been getting these disapproving looks like they were now starting to blame him for bringing it upon himself all the time. Which, judging based purely on how it must look like he’d just - for all intents and purposes - accosted Hamilton in the hallway, yelled at him and followed him back to his office to - likely - yell at him some more, Thomas can see how it might seem like that. _They’re_ not the ones on the receiving end of Hamilton’s bullshit, ninety nine percent of the time. Thomas can’t really blame them for not understanding why he needs the last word, why he's following.

He also can’t seem to stop himself from doing it, either. 

He catches up with Hamilton outside the man’s office, his assistant’s desk already cleaned down for the weekend, neat pile of things sitting in a tray for him to collect and deal with and he leans there and reaches for them with an unimpressed expression when Thomas tries to strike a balance between his concern and his annoyance and ends up with _you should really go home, you didn’t have lunch and you look like shit._

“Firstly, unlike, it appears, everybody else here, I still have actual work to do. Secondly, I did eat an apple. Thirdly, fuck you very much, no I don’t.”

No, he doesn’t, and isn’t that even more frustrating. A man that seemed to exist purely on coffee and snark and spite most of the time shouldn’t manage look like that. But even when working himself half to exhaustion with dark circles ringing his eyes until it wasn’t clear whether he’d just not slept or whether someone had gotten sick of his attitude and taken it out on his face, he still managed to hum with crackling energy and an intensity that just never fucking stopped and-

“An apple is not lunch. Must be some important work.” Thomas says flatly, resolutely only addresses those two points, wonders if his implied _not worth killing yourself over_ is obvious. 

“It’s all important, Jefferson. Don’t we _need_ money? The rate you spend it we certainly do.” Hamilton snaps back, flicking through the sheaf of papers he’s picked up and huffing. “Besides, if my work isn’t perfect, _someone_ will certainly point out every single fucking flaw.” 

It’s familiar, a well-worn complaint, especially recently, a merry-go-round they’d already ridden a couple hundred times over the last six months and when Thomas frowns at it, Hamilton’s face smooths out impassively. Tellingly.

“Your godawful plan was on the agenda today.” 

Not a question. It definitely was.

“Oh,” Hamilton says blithely, pushing away from the desk, face the picture of innocent disinterest as he steps into his office. “Was it?”

Thomas scoffs aloud at the idea that he’s expected to buy that, because Hamilton’s been subtly pushing that totalitarian piece of shit for months now, he lives and breathes that fucking plan at the minute, and if he’s suggesting that he’s staying late to work on it he’s surely not solved the many, _many_ issues Thomas can see in it- 

The minute the irritation flashes through him that he didn’t get the opportunity to point those flaws out in front of everybody before Hamilton has the chance to fix them; that he has plenty of time before the next meeting to finish it and secure promises for half his fucking signatures already, he abruptly, suddenly, _horrifically_ realizes that Hamilton has just spent the entire afternoon filibustering the damn board meeting to avoid that exact scenario. 

And that he’d let Thomas help him do it, too.

“ _Oh you motherf-_ ”

Hamilton offers him a shit-eating grin and promptly slams his office door in Thomas’s face.

* * *

Thomas is still annoyed throughout the whole following day.

It's exacerbated by the fact that it’s a Saturday and he has nothing at all to distract himself from seething over _Hamilton_.

There’s just something about the man that crawls under his skin and niggles and prods and pokes until he snaps. _Every damn time._ He’s always prided himself on his even keel, his self-composure, knows he’s a little too formal sometimes - that’s the upbringing coming through - but on the whole he’s always been a composed, cool-headed, rational sort of person. 

Until Hamilton. Until he’d been recalled from Paris, uncomfortable and unsettled in the unfamiliar organization he found himself in compared to when he’d left, but Washington had made some honestly positive changes when he’d taken over and begun cleaning house and so Thomas had been uneasy but reluctantly curious. 

_Thomas_ , Washington had said, met him in the lobby with an amiable smile and a handshake, _good to have you back with us_ and gestured to the slim, bright-eyed, sharp-looking young man trailing behind him. _This is Alexander_ , and that was all. Just _Alexander_ , like it was obvious that Thomas should know exactly who the guy was, just like that. The obvious pedestal Washington unknowingly put Hamilton on, the blatant, unrepentant favoritism had put his teeth on edge before they’d even spoken. He’d cocked his head, haughtily, pettily, _Sorry who?_ and Washington had had the grace to apologize genially and introduce his Director of Finance properly.

What's really fucking galling is that he _had_ known who Hamilton was, couldn’t have avoided it, the smattering of talk in their French affiliate about the young man helping Washington to mastermind their way out of a tyrannical management. _Sa main droite_ they’d said. _His right hand_. He’d even heard about Hamilton through Gilbert for the year they’d worked together in Paris. When his colleague hadn’t been waxing lyrical about his handsome Greek God across the sea, he’d heard plenty about his roommates, gritting his teeth whenever Gilbert had mentioned Laurens, because it was a damn small world and they've never gotten on, but he’d gotten a generally favorable impression of Hamilton from Lafayette. _Very smart. Loud. Sweet. Ceaseless. Opinionated. Stubborn. Passionate._

Even as Hamilton had stepped too-far forward into his space to offer his hand, Thomas had thought, _Huh, pretty. Maybe this won’t be so bad_. But then quick, dark eyes had had him feeling instantly dissected and cataloged and the guy had smiled, cocky and so damn self-important and he’d very quickly disabused Thomas of that whole notion. _Sweet_. Ha.

 _Mr Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton_ he’d said, shaking Thomas hand with narrowed eyes, still with that smug smile. _Can’t blame your for being so out of the loop, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?_ Washington had coughed pointedly at the fucker and Thomas had gotten the impression that if they’d been sitting at a table he might have trodden on one of Hamilton’s cheap, high-street-store brogues, hidden away out of sight. The ease of their relationship and the attitude of the little bastard had bristled him again and it had gotten the better of him before he’d registered it. He’d bared his teeth as he smiled back, pointed and cutting _well it sounded like you all were in dire need of my assistance, so duty calls. Can’t have this place going to the dogs, can I?_

He’d taken great satisfaction in Hamilton’s flush of outrage.

Two hours after that they’d been screaming at each other across a boardroom and Thomas had threatened to throw the little shit out of the nearest window.

And so there went his precious patience, and he'd never really gotten it back. 

He’d had to concede with reluctance that Lafayette had been on the money in some regards, because Hamilton _is_ relentless and regrettably intelligent, which makes it even more frustrating that speaking with him feels like Thomas banging his head up against a brick wall, getting nowhere and then resorting to _yelling at the wall_ like that will help. He can _see_ how fluidly they’re supposed to work together but for the life of them they can’t seem to go two minutes without snapping, without tension, without rubbing each other up the wrong way.

And isn’t that another thing that doesn’t help him; how fucking pretty Hamilton is, when he’s not off on one of his moods, when he’s smiling, albeit at Thomas’s expense. Expressive and impassioned in that way that Thomas can’t help but admire, that way people who didn’t grow up with money had about them; like they have nothing to lose. A daily reminder that being aloof and cautious and wary of making waves hasn’t been trained into Hamilton like it has with Thomas and how he uses that to his advantage, combines that untempered passion with the hunger and intensity that seems to just be the general essence of him to create an unstoppable force that blows almost everyone away before they’ve even realized what’s happening. 

Thomas spends most of his time trying to twist that force into something vaguely suiting his plans and it leaves them both irate and hoarse from shouting each other down, Thomas clenched tight and stony and scathing, Hamilton fierce and shaking and worked up and sometimes, _just sometimes, no matter what James thinks_ , sometimes when he’s particularly agitated, Thomas’s traitorous brain sticks on how else he could rub Hamilton up the wrong way and make him look like that, flushed and breathless and shaky, and maybe then he'd _finally_ do something Thomas wanted him to-

But then of course Hamilton will inevitably go and say something especially obnoxious and the idea ebbs, quick and abrupt, leaves him in a foul mood and burning with irritation that he’s even allowed himself to go there, that he has that little self-control. 

By the time he meets James that evening he’s thoroughly pissed off and ready to get completely trashed and he sort of hopes James is feeling especially patient because he’s been stewing on Hamilton and that damnable meeting all day and has a feeling that alcohol is not going to do anything to alleviate that annoyance. He thinks James is maybe _already_ exercising his patience when the bar they meet at is the one around the corner from their office, the one certain colleagues of theirs live nearby and frequent, and if Thomas is a little tempted to possibly hunt Hamilton down during the weekend and yell at him until he feels better about getting played, well then James is obligated as his best friend to at least humor him somewhat.

Three drinks in, propped up on bar stools and discussing the finer points of a good malted whiskey, James raises a serene eyebrow when Thomas finally breaks and launches into his suspicions about Hamilton derailing the meeting on purpose. 

“Honestly Thomas, it doesn't shock me,” James says, and at least he does _sound_ patient. “He didn’t spend his formative business years at Washington’s knee learning to _play nice_. They were dirty as all hell trying to oust King.” 

Thomas bristles at the reminder that he hadn’t been around during the takeover, that he’d been stuck in Paris like a child sent away to boarding school and missed all that action. He forgets that Hamilton is clearly capable of being a manipulative fuck, distracted by the way he runs his mouth into thinking that’s all he has to say, all he is, and it bugs him. 

“Just caught me off guard,” he grumbles.

“He always does,” James muses and Thomas scowls at him in lieu of arguing because he’s right and he really doesn’t need James to elaborate on it, but he maybe should have, because James does anyway; “You can’t _manage_ him and you hate it so you lose your temper. He loses _his_ temper because _you_ have, and round and round we _all_ go until one of you nearly has a heart attack. You spend three days fuming that he’s gotten to you, _again_ , until we end up sitting here in this bar where you know he and his friends come most weekends, forty minutes away from _both_ of our apartments and all the perfectly nice establishments nearby, because you’re fucking obsessed with him.”

Okay, so maybe James isn’t feeling particularly patient after all. 

“I am _not_ -"

“My bad,” James deadpans, already having made his point. “I’ll rephrase. Because you’re _mildly annoyed_ with him.” 

Thomas glares, orders another drink and pretends not to be able to hear him until he changes the subject.

* * *

“In light of how very much _not-obsessed_ you are, it’s completely not even worth my mentioning that a certain colleague just walked in here, right?”

Thomas curses the instinctive stiffening in his spine, straightening and snapping up without his permission, going on the defensive before he can stop himself, and elbows James in the side when he snorts. Just to prove the point, he buries his face in his fourth glass, decidedly doesn’t turn around to see if he’s being played, to see if James is full of shit just to fuck with him, because it doesn’t matter, because James is wrong, anyway, because Thomas really doesn’t give a-

Strong arms are flung around him from behind, Lafayette’s overly exuberant, happy _Thomas si agréable de te voir_ , excessive even for him and the way he kisses Thomas a little sloppy on the cheek giving away his inebriation almost as much as the way he turns to James with equal enthusiasm, even though they hardly even know each other really, says _how are you James, you look well-_

“Oh for fucks sake,” he hears grumbled loudly at his other side as Lafayette goes on to introduce James to his boyfriend. “I really don’t get paid enough to have to see you on the fucking weekends too.”

Nevertheless, Hamilton hops a little unsteadily on to the stool to Thomas’ right, orders two drinks and reaches out to play with the pot of toothpicks on the bar, pulls one out to pick at his nails with. Thomas cringes.

“Enchanting as always. I see you haven’t quite realised that you’re hardly in college anymore.” He gestures at the ragged sneakers peeking out from under Hamilton's jeans and though he gets flipped off, it's loose and lazy because he's clearly as tipsy as Lafayette is and Thomas can’t seem to tap into his lingering annoyance to berate the guy like he’s imagined doing all day.

“I see _you’re_ on your way to win a Willy Wonka fancy dress competition, good for you. I thought you had no sense of humor. I stand corrected.”

Never mind. There it is.

“Fuck you, you little gremlin.”

“Fuck _you_ , sanctimonious pr-”

“Oh look,” James says dryly from his other side. “Alexander’s here.”

“Hello Madison.” Hamilton leans obnoxiously wide around Thomas to smile overly sweetly at James and nearly topples off the stool. “How are you this fine evening. Having a good one the both of you? Slumming it, are we? On your way soon, I suppose?”

“Seems like you’ve _already_ had a good one.” Thomas grumbles under his breath. Hamilton accidentally-on-purpose kicks him as he shuffles round to face James properly. “Did you really need two drinks?” 

“Firstly, none of your business. Secondly, yes. Thirdly, none of your business.”

“Well that was weak. Those didn’t even count as three poin-”

He’s ignored completely as Hamilton waves down Laurens, just entering the bar, with a genuine smile Thomas doesn’t usually get to see and a _Jack, over here,_ hands off the second drink and Thomas absolutely doesn’t care, beyond it being fucking _rude_ , but he does hold his breath, because John Laurens is a Grade A dick, and Thomas really can't be fucked dealing with him right now.

Laurens has always hated Thomas; they’d grown up in roughly the same social circles, old, upper-class money for parents and all the obligations that came with it and they could have been decent friends, Thomas thinks, if he himself hadn’t been such a quiet, shy child who’d already had James and rebuffed the need for any others. While Thomas had grown up the perfectly agreeable image of his father, imbibed his status and enjoyed it, Laurens had outwardly and awkwardly rebelled every step of the way against all aspects of high society; the socials, the country clubs, the banquets, the _debutante balls_ \- at one of which the other boy had gotten caught _in flagrante_ with a waiter and loudly and exasperatedly declared his burgeoning bisexuality, finally rudely ostracizing himself from most of polite society and humiliating his father, not that he'd seemed to care.

Considering this, and the relatively little blowback Thomas had received the following year upon his mother subtly and quietly disclosing that Thomas was _highly_ unlikely to be taking a wife of his own, and how Thomas still manages to keep one foot in that world, respected by most of his peers through money and name alone, because let's face it, _Jefferson_ trumps _Laurens_ hands down every time, and well, John's bitterness had really taken root. Thomas doesn't really give a damn what the guy thinks, but he does go out of his way to avoid having to interact with him, for an easy life, because nobody needs that kind of resentment on a day-to-day basis. Even though the rivalry between he and Hamilton can often get vicious, it never gets that bad; the two of them are at least expected to work together quite frequently, whereas Laurens gets to sit three floors down managing monkeys playing with computers and calling it work, even though Thomas knows he spends most of the day with his feet on his desk watching YouTube and texting Hamilton. Thomas only has to be in the same room as him during board meetings, though he doesn’t understand why the guy actually gets a say in anything considering his job is to essentially just make sure the internet always works, but hey. _Departmental representation._

They mostly just avoid conversing at all, unless _absolutely_ necessary, and luckily they’re spared on this occasion too; Thomas is thankfully able to turn his back and let them to it when Lafayette and Hercules migrate over to their friends, though James chooses that moment to reach into his pocket to take a call that Thomas sourly thinks must be Dolley, judging by the smile he levels at the drink in his hand, everyone else forgotten.

Oh _god_ , Thomas actually _is_ a bitter harpy.

He tilts his head to the other side while James is busy, because if he's going to listen in on something it's not going to be James's perfect relationship, just as Lafayette innocently asks _what happened with your pretty friend outside, chéri, I thought he might be joining us._ Thomas can hear the scowl in Laurens’s voice, the sad hum that Lafayette gives, sees the way Hamilton’s shoulders cringe up to his ears when Laurens says _God, his name was Tyrone-_

“Sorry,” Thomas hears Mulligan interrupt, though he can’t see him without craning his head and making it obvious he’s now eavesdropping. “I know I should be able to speak _nonsense_ fluently by now but I’m not drunk enough. What’s the problem?”

“Oh _mon coeur_ ,” Lafayette sighs, and Thomas can see Laurens tip his head back in a groan. “It’s not a very, how should we say, _sensual_ name. Rather off putting, to be frank.”

Hamilton scoffs in agreement. “What the actual fuck. Can you even imagine being all hot and willing, legs spread and then… _that_.” He puts on a desperately breathy voice and leans in to Laurens with a hand to his chest. “ _God yes_ , please _fuck me_ , please… _Tyrone_. Ugh. What a turn off.”

Laurens’s burst of laughter covers Thomas choking on his drink, but only just. He resolutely blames the unruly flash of interest low in his gut on the four drinks and his own unpreparedness to listen to someone running their mouth like a professional porn star, because he’s still irritated about yesterday, and absolutely refuses to make that worse by giving in to himself and entertaining the notion of Hamilton being _hot and willing, legs spread, pleading to be fu-_

“Are you _blushing_?” James asks, putting his phone away and squinting, leaning in to Thomas with interest. “What did I-”

“No. Shut up. Do you need to leave?” _Say yes. I don’t actually think I properly thought this through but now I can’t back down._

“Nope,” James grins, popping the ‘p’ like he knows exactly what Thomas is thinking and is enjoying every second of it, because he’s a sadistic bastard and a terrible friend and maybe Thomas should have ditched him for Laurens when they were in kindergarten after all. “Let’s get another.”

* * *

Thomas can pinpoint the exact moment his life tilts on it’s axis and never quite rights itself as eleven forty-nine that night. 

It’s innocent. He’s _entirely_ innocent in the whole situation. All Thomas does is make a wrong turn on his way back to James after using the bathroom, stumbles left instead of right in the dark and ends up down a hallway that looks more like storage than the corridor between the bathroom and the bar. He stubs his toe when he almost trips over a crate and is about to turn back, follow the quiet thrum of music and voices back out where he’d _meant_ to go when he registers noise further down and around the corner; a thud, _oomph_ , a muffled moan, the sound of kissing and panted breath and _oh for the love of god_. He abruptly turns around and steps away, really, _really_ not interested in stumbling onto someone’s random quickie and kind of annoyed now that he has to get back with the added pressure of not making any noise himself because he doesn’t want anyone to think he-

“ _Fuck_ , like that, just… _ah_ -”

Thomas stops dead, because that’s Hamilton. Thomas has heard almost every possible intonation of the word _fuck_ from the man’s mouth - albeit maybe not _that_ particular inflection, helpfully now replaying over and over in his head like a skipping record - because he’s so damn unprofessional that he says it at least three times as much as he says the word _budget_ , which is a considerable feat when one considers his actual job and Thomas can recognize it _far_ too easily, is sure of it down to his bones. If he wasn’t, he would be a second later when Hamilton ups the ante, throws out _tighter, just, yes, that’s- fuck_ and that breathless, unsteady voice he’d mimicked earlier isn’t actually that far off how he sounds in the moment, pleasure-thick and needy and Thomas reluctantly, _terribly_ , hesitates; spins back that way, alcohol and curiosity and a twinge of arousal warring in his blood with, well, _not_ doing what he thinks he might be about to.

_Turn around, Thomas._

He should leave. He should _definitely_ leave. Alexander Hamilton is getting off down some random hallway six feet away and Thomas should definitely leave. 

He leans toward the noises and peers around the corner, instead.

So maybe he’s not _entirely_ innocent.

He almost wishes he hadn’t, because he's not going to be able to wipe away the image; Hamilton crowded back against the opposite wall, the back of some guy’s head facing Thomas as they kiss, wet and sloppy, with one of Hamilton’s hands up the back of his shirt and the other round his neck at his collar. The guy’s hand his obscured by his body, but he’s jerking Hamilton off, it’s obvious in his movements, in the sounds it makes, in the way Hamilton groans _shit, harder_ into the stranger’s mouth.

_Turn around Thomas._

And he has to be a stranger, Thomas tells himself steadily, not that it matters. This guy isn’t Hamilton’s _boyfriend_ , he’s sure, because that really wasn’t Hamilton’s thing, because Thomas has seen him after enough Friday night drinks looking to make sure he’s not going home alone, because Thomas would know if Hamilton was seeing anyone.

Not that they’d ever actually had such a friendly conversation, but Thomas would _know_. It’s just that they spend a lot of time together, really. Anything Thomas wants to do from an operation standpoint is subject to financial go-ahead; every single one of his projects gate-kept by Hamilton _the dragon_ , hoarding his gold-

That's probably a complaint for another day, but every single damn decision made requires approval from the both of them, each one necessitating hours of snapping and bickering and frustration before a tacit agreement is in place. And there are a _lot_ of decisions to be made. No, Thomas would know if he was suddenly dating, just like how Thomas knows how he takes his coffee - _too_ _strong and too sweet_ \- even though Thomas has never included his order when he sends his assistant on a run. Just like how Thomas knows he takes his shoes off in his office when he thinks no one is around, how he swears four times more heavily when he’s tired, how he attacks everything in the shape of lists and bullet-point arguments and facts, how he-

Thomas would just know, okay. 

And _really_ , he thinks, this guy can’t know Hamilton at all, can’t have spoken to Thomas’ rival for very long before dragging him down here and putting his hands on him, if Hamilton was having to urge _harder_ and _faster_ and _tighter_ , in that frustrated, unsatisfied little moan when it’s surely, _surely_ clear to anyone who cared to pay attention, clear to anyone who’d known him for more than an hour that he likes to fuck like he speaks; harsh, fast and a little bit punishing, a little bit painful. It’s surely clear by the way he can’t settle his hands, fluttering uncertainly over the guy’s back, that he wants them held, pinned, restrained so that he doesn’t have to choose for himself. It's surely clear in how he keeps pushing off the wall into the guy that he wants to be held down tighter, firmer, pushed back more roughly-

And fuck, Thomas should be at home, should be back out sinking drinks with James, should not be stood here in a dim hallway watching his annoying colleague get a mediocre handjob and thinking that he knows better than this idiot how Hamilton wants to be touched.

_Turn around, Thomas._

But then Hamilton drops his head back to the wall as the man fists his hair, licks down his neck and Thomas sees his face properly for the first time; heavy lidded, pretty flush high on his cheeks, spit-wet lips, all dazed and unguarded and _open_ like Thomas has never seen him before and so there he is, for better or worse, as Hamilton blinks and focuses those dark eyes right on Thomas.

Apart from a small, sharp inhale of breath, there’s not any immediate indication that Hamilton has even seen him, he doesn’t react, doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge it at all, and Thomas should count his blessings and _definitely_ leave now. He should run far away and relegate this to the annals of those really fucking awkward encounters to wince about at three in the morning years later; like responding _thanks you too_ when someone wishes you a _Happy Birthday_ \- cringeworthy and humiliating but ultimately harmless, except the stranger takes that moment to pull hard on Hamilton’s hair, earns himself a whine of pleasure so obviously genuine in it’s contrast to the exaggerated encouragement he’s been getting up until now that Thomas doesn’t move an inch.

He’s too stuck on how Hamilton’s eyes are wide and round and now fixed right on Thomas over an oblivious shoulder, all breathy sighs and mumbling words that Thomas can’t hear as the guy works him over, tugs on his hair again. He's too stuck on how Hamilton's knees buckle, how he reflexively wets his bottom lip and for a second Thomas is sure he’s going to get on the floor, that he’s going to find out what Alexander Hamilton’s cocky, clever mouth looks like rammed full like he so obviously wants, but Hamilton steadies himself, grips the guy with a groan and a _yes, like that,_ leans in to press the encouragement right into his lover’s ear.

He’s still looking at Thomas over the man’s shoulder when he comes a minute later with a small, high noise, bites down on his bottom lip, eyes closing. 

Thomas removes himself from the hallway before Hamilton catches his breath.

For some reason he’s not all that interested in watching the favor being repaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> si agréable de te voir / so nice to see you  
> chéri / darling


	2. Chapter 2

Alex has these moments, sometimes.

Just sometimes, when his brain runs ahead of itself and moves too quickly, or when it doesn’t move at all, stuck stubbornly on the same thoughts over and over, or when it gets far too loud to be distracted; his heart pounds and his palms sweat and his voice goes high and thin and his breathing comes shallow and his head spins and won’t focus. 

Sometimes his throat closes up and his lungs seem to lose three-quarters of their oxygen capacity and he feels like he can’t breathe, but that’s only when he's not quick enough to catch it before he starts in a horrible loop, because there's nothing like straight up just panicking that he _can't breathe_ to make it worse, or maybe when everything is really out of control or when he’s faced with too much uncertainty because Alex has an answer or a plan for nearly everything. He knows what he likes and what he doesn't. He knows what he's good at and what he isn't. He knows who he is and how other people work in relation to him and everything makes sense and when it doesn't, when that balance is disrupted, it always hits him harder than he expects; leaves him adrift and reeling and scrabbling to get back onto solid ground, onto something he understands and so when he wakes up, groggy and fuzzy one Saturday lunchtime with that solid line detailing exactly where he stands with Thomas goddamn Jefferson suddenly blurred and smudged, he can’t help losing his shit a little, stares up at his ceiling, heaving, because fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_.

He pulls a pillow over his face and tries, weakly, to smother himself, or at least the sound of his stuttering, and he’s still stuck in that cycle of heavy-heartbeats and uneven, shallow hyperventilating, chest aching and lungs burning - the pillow probably isn’t helping, but it's too-quiet out in the rest of the apartment and if nobody hears it then he can pretend it never happened afterward - when John cracks open his door a little later and crawls into bed with him with a mumbled _god I’m so fucking hungover_ that breaks off abruptly, presumably at the smothering-in-progress. He puts a hand palm-down on Alex’s shaking chest and Alex tries to focus more on that touch than the urge to scream or throw up or run until his legs hurt because he feels too much like _ass_ to try that right now. 

“Hey, _hey_ , you do a bunch of coke I didn’t see last night, or are you freaking out?” John says, sounding more awake than when he’d come in. “Alex?”

Alex whines a _hmph_ helpfully into the pillow and tries holding his breath, because that normally works, which is fucking ridiculous but he’s given up trying to understand why the feeling of being _forced_ not to breathe convinces his body it actually does want to, pushes it back into doing what it’s supposed to, like he’s playing chicken with it, and sometimes he thinks he's maybe got a genuine problem with one-upmanship if he even turns _b_ _reathing_ into some weird fucking power play. At least he's good at calling bluffs, even his own, because he’s stubborn and contrary and combative enough that he’ll hold it in until he passes out if he really needs to, but he doesn’t because John is here, and when his head starts swimming and he finally gets sick of trying to deal with it he gives up, pulls the pillow off and finally huffs out _can't - I can't- can you just-_

John slaps him once, lightly, before he even finishes, because he’s a good friend, and because he’s probably been laying there expecting it any second and because it works best when Alex is surprised enough by it to choke abruptly on his shock and inhale sharp and sudden and _there_. 

Alex still pulls the pillow back into place, even as he breathes a little clearer, a little easier, because John follows up with _do_ _y_ _ou wanna talk about_ _it_ even though Alex never wants to talk about it. Mostly he wants to hide and let it run it’s course until it goes away, until he feels more like himself, until all the embarrassment is safely shut away. 

They still offer.

Surprising neither of them, he shakes his head emphatically, pillow muffling his _umph phn_ , which is probably best, because _I’m fine_ seems like a bit of a stretch. John knows well enough to let it go though, flops down on his front next to him, still pressing down on his chest, starts humming, off-key and quiet like it’s absent minded boredom so that Alex can pretend he’s not focusing on the sound of it. Alex wonders if he’s monitoring the palpitations like a human electrocardiogram, trying to tell if they’re slowing down or getting worse, and when he’s obviously back in the realm of _functioning human being_ , John yawns _Laf’s putting on The Room, should I tell him to hold off?_

Alex doesn’t know if he means it genuinely or manipulatively, because he’s used both before but it works well all the same. The humiliation of John padding back out to the living room and telling Laf that Alex is _in a state_ and making it a _thing_ is enough to get him up and moving, groaning long and loud into the pillow for a second before yanking it away like ripping off a plaster and sitting up.

Tradition dictates that all hangovers be combated with greasy pizza and terrible movies and Alex is not about to cause a ruckus in tradition over Thomas fucking Jefferson of all people. 

“Okay. I’m okay. I’m up. I’m done. I’m okay.”

John doesn’t insult him by asking if he’s sure, but he does drag Alex’s comforter off him and out the room as he wanders away, presumably both to huddle under on the couch and to ensure Alex doesn’t just lay right back down and die some more, and he’s right, when he follows and grunts a greeting to the huddle of blankets and limbs on the other couch, curls up as John yells from the kitchen.

“ _-Alex you want anything?_ ” 

“Coffee,” he yawns back. “Maybe cheetos.”

There’s a pregnant pause in which Alex can almost _hear_ John trying to decide whether to ask if coffee is a good idea on an already-irregular-heart-rate kind of day, but luckily settles on the fact that Alex is a full grown adult who will just go get his own and capitulates without even trying. 

He does throw the bag of cheetos at the back of Alex's head in lieu of chastising him, though. 

Twenty minutes in, steaming mug of solid brain-power between his palms, grounded by other human beings being present, Alex feels marginally able to tackle the situation and he slowly and carefully attempts to examine all the facts, sterile and clinical, from every angle he can, rational and methodical. 

In general, Alex tries not to lie to himself if he can help it.

Oh he’ll scream until he’s red in the face that blue is green to anyone _else_ if he needs to - or purely to be stubborn and contrary if anyone disagrees with him - but at the end of the day it’s pertinent for him to personally remember that blue is indeed _blue_. This is a fact and facts are useful to bear in mind. Blue is blue. One plus one equals two. Thomas Jefferson watched him getting a handjob last night. Alex had enjoyed it. Facts. Facts help him center his thoughts when his mind wants to run away into panic and ask questions he doesn't have answers to. List the facts. Propose theories. Draw what logical conclusions you can. Thank you law school. 

Fact; Jefferson had stuck around to watch. Fact; Jefferson had made some serious eye contact the entire fucking time. Fact; Jefferson and Madison had left before Alex had gotten back to his friends, leaving half a drink behind each. 

Fact; Alex had come _h_ _ard_ on it. 

He doesn't think that's relevant to this evaluation though.

Theory; _Jefferson wanted blackmail material_. It had been Alex’s, initial, reflexive fear but it sounds blessedly clunky and illogical as soon as he thinks it. He still follows through with the mental exercise, though, because it’s making him feel better already. 

Meditation apps have nothing on cold, unfeeling logic. 

_Evidence for_ : The eye contact made some sense in this theory; he’d want Alex to _know_ he’d seen, possibly to make it more difficult to outright lie about it afterward, but it’s the only thing that Alex can force to fit it. Jefferson and Madison leaving abruptly doesn’t make a lick of sense here; surely he’d have wanted to make some kind of power play after the fact.

 _Evidence against_ : In all honesty; Alex is the opposite of a blushing virgin, he’s pretty sure the whole world already knows that, including his entire office, and so he doesn’t see what Jefferson realistically has to gain by disclosing the encounter, or even threatening to. Surely Jefferson comes off looking far worse than Alex does. Alex might not have managed, or cared enough, to make it to a bed but Jefferson’s still the creepy, uninvited voyeur in this situation. Also Jefferson didn’t have any way to prove it had even happened; he’d not had his phone out or anything of the sort. Besides, Alex has never responded well to being threatened. Alex does not negotiate with terrorists. Alex _will_ call that bluff, Jefferson knows this well enough by now.

Okay. Probably not about to be blackmailed, then.   
  
As soon as he’s reached that conclusion, Alex settles, feels instantly lighter. John frowns across the couch at him when he sighs, deep and long but Alex wiggles his toes against his friend’s calf and sinks back into soft cushions as he finally relaxes, because realistically, that’s all he _needs_ to be concerned about; whether this will impact him on a professional level.

On a personal level, he doesn’t give a fuck what Jefferson saw, or why, or what he thinks about it.  
  
But-

Alex purses his lips and eventually continues, because a full analysis is always more helpful. Information is knowledge is _power,_ and so if he can gain any more insight from examining the situation, it’s worth it. Maybe there's something he can use.

Theory; _Jefferson had enjoyed it_.

Alex swallows and pushes back whatever _t_ _hat_ feeling is, because that really isn’t the point of this.

Clinical, logical, evaluation. 

_Evidence for_ : It does fit better. He’d lurked for a good long while, for no other reason it seemed than to watch, and although Alex hadn’t been able to see perfectly in that dim hallway Jefferson’s eyes had been pretty intense, he very well could have been into it. He’d left immediately after, which one might do in avoidance of confrontation after such a situation. Also he’d seemed decently drunk when Alex had literally run into him earlier in the evening and gotten a haughty lecture about watching where he was going for his trouble, even though Jefferson had _definitely_ stepped out of nowhere into his path; alcohol might have swayed him in a dick vs sense debate. 

_Evidence against_ : Jefferson dislikes Alex. This is a _fundamental_ fact, a universal truth, but he doesn’t know if it proves anything beyond a lack of personal investment in the situation. One doesn’t typically stop getting off to certain pornography because one of the actors is an asshole, hell, Jefferson himself is case-in-point evidence of that because Alex can begrudgingly recognize that the man is _objectively_ sexually attractive with his-

Stop. Not helpful. _Logical extrapolation: Jefferson enjoyed it._

He immediately files that away as the most likely scenario without unpacking it further, because if that's true, if _that's_ what he's assuming then there’s nothing more to be gained from this because it’s _Jefferson_ , because he’s a _dick_ , because Alex doesn’t give a damn what Jefferson gets off on, and because if he thinks about the whole thing too much, about how much _he’d_ enjoyed it, he might end up with an uncomfortable erection in the middle of a Tommy Wiseau movie and that is just not fucking happening. 

Thank fuck there’s no way that Jefferson’s ever going to _know_ Alex had enjoyed it; that fact can die safely with him. He’s no stranger to being frank with himself about his kinks and now he’s grounded and soothed and not feeling so fucking fragile he’s not about to start self-flagellating for it. He’s always liked putting on a show; he knows he looks good like that and he likes what that does to people, and if it happens to have been Jefferson this time, getting a glimpse of what it looks like to _not_ have a permanent stick up your ass then _fine,_ at least Alex had gotten a damn good orgasm out of it.

Besides, judging based purely on the strategic exit, Jefferson had maybe made a stupid, drunk call that he’d instantly regretted. 

For the first time in two years, Alex finds himself completely relating to the man.

They can absolutely pretend this never happened.   
  
  


* * *

Well. _Alex_ can.

* * *

From: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
To: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
Subject: As fun as it is…

…to try and decipher what nonsensical reasoning you’re using on any typical day in person, it’s especially lovely to try to do so through a terrible game of telephone with your errant assistant who clearly has no idea what you want him to communicate to me. 

This is the fifth time this week he’s come in, dropped some papers on my desk, said something utterly irrelevant and left. 

It’s Wednesday.

For God’s sake just come yourself next time, I can’t believe I’m saying it but I might actually get more sense out of you. 

Kindest regards, as always,  
T. Jefferson  
Director of Operations  
Washington Industries 

* * *

From: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
To: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: As fun as it is…

Sounds to me like he understood exactly what I wanted him to communicate to you.

I’m very busy and important and don’t have time to handhold you through your job. Figure it out.

Yours, in constant and perpetual disgust that you insist on that pompous signature on internal communications,  
A.Ham

* * *

From: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
To: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: As fun as it is…

Of course. 

I assume you told him to drop the last folder all over the floor as well? I’ve just spent twenty minutes putting it all back into the right order, difficult seeing as it’s thirty pages of complete nonsense. Thanks for that.

I’m not signing this.

Sincerely, with some semblance of professional standard,  
T. Jefferson  
Director of Operations  
Washington Industries 

* * *

From: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
To: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: As fun as it is…

I did not. I clearly need to give him a raise for showing initiative. Can you say _atta boy_ to your assistant? 

(I mean, _you_ obviously can’t, otherwise Ben mightn’t be such a mouse, but in general.)

Feel free to not sign it, I don’t give a shit if your research budgets lapse.

Kindly, and completely unsurprised that you can’t read a contract with your head so far up your own ass,  
A.Ham

* * *

From: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
To: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: As fun as it is…

No.

My deepest apologies, I surely didn’t recognize it as my research budgets for this quarter, considering it's about as close to what we agreed on last week as you are to a professional ballet dancer. Or a professional financial director, for that matter.

Politely confused (as to why you still have a job),  
T. Jefferson  
Director of Operations  
Washington Industries 

* * *

From: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
To: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: As fun as it is…

1\. You’re forgiven, I don’t typically expect you to be able to do your job properly on any given day, anyway  
2\. It’s what _I_ agreed on  
3\. I could dance a mean Odette, fuck you very much

Regretfully off to attend frightfully important meetings you’re not invited to,  
A.Ham

* * *

From: J.Laurens@washindustries.com  
To: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
Subject: How many times

Stop swearing in your emails, you know it flags up.

If I have to delete one more alert I’m just going to let it report you next time.

J.

* * *

The first time it happens, Jefferson starts it.

Sure, Alex is in his office, but Alex is _always_ in Jefferson’s office. 

Jefferson’s office, with his obnoxiously-healthy pot plants and his fucking fancy-ass ergonomic chairs that he’d insisted on paying for himself because Alex wouldn’t spring for everyone to have them, and he’d definitely done it just to make sure everyone who comes to his office knows what they’re missing and hates Alex for it. Jefferson’s office with his stupid, obscenely large windows, because _Alex_ keeps the company going but _Jefferson_ gets a corner office, because Washington had buttered his ego with it to avoid having to concede on some of his demands to re-involve Rochambeau when he’d come back and Alex _gets_ it. It was an economical, easy concession and Alex hadn’t wanted to give the French any more damn money more than his boss had, but it’s still fucking irritating every time he walks in there. 

So yeah, Alex is in his office. Most of Alex’s entire job is making sure all of Jefferson’s departments have appropriate funding, and it’s not any different to their normal bickering; Alex is pretty keen to resecure the status quo on that front, resolidify that line, assumes the lingering jittery feeling of needing to settle one’s nerves after coming all over oneself while maintaining direct eye contact with one’s professional arch nemesis is pretty standard. 

No big deal, right?

Jefferson doesn’t mention it through the whole first half of the week and Alex, for once, is perfectly happy to oblige him. He spends the first few days sending Lucas as an emissary between them, just to ease any immediate awkwardness, which has the added benefit of irritating Jefferson to no end because he absolutely hates Alex’s delightfully impertinent assistant but has some noble, lofty hangups about not being as much of an outright asshole to subordinates as he clearly feels like he can be to Alex, and so imagining him trying to toe that line keeps Alex amused without even having to actually piss Jefferson off himself. 

Until, that is, he returns from drawing up quarterly marketing budgets with Angelica only to have Lucas give him a _this is definitely not my fault_ expression and a familiar looking folder containing a very much shredded copy of the contract he’d had him courier over that morning, and he suddenly decides it’s the perfect time to pay Jefferson a personal visit. 

He’s busy, Alex notes, must be quite occupied, because his door is shut and his assistant balks slightly at Alex’s approach and he surely doesn’t look pissed off enough to warrant the apprehension in Ben’s face, he’s more likely trying to figure out how he can avoid having to intercept Alex. _Fantastic_. Alex takes pity on the kid, nods at the empty cup on his desk with a raised eyebrow and a _about time for a refill, surely_ and the kid takes the out with a grateful nod, vanishes into thin air. Alex assumes he’s smart enough to pretend he’d been getting said refill for at least five minutes before Alex showed up.

When he slips inside Jefferson’s office, he's on the phone, leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping at the arm as he glares at Alex.

“-intermittently, sure. But if they’re going to finish on schedule they need to be making considerably more progress, Hugh.” His slow, lazy drawl is a complete contrast to the way he gestures violently between Alex and the door and mouths _shove_ _off will you_. Alex smiles sweetly and shuts the door behind himself. _Wait? Don’t mind if I do._ Jefferson rolls his eyes and flips him off, so he runs his finger over the man’s immaculate bookshelf as he lingers, swaps some books around, tries to make himself as conspicuous and distracting as possible.

“That’s not a bad idea.” Jefferson grinds out a few minutes later, looking murderous as Alex peers into the top drawer of his filing cabinet. “Maybe a financial incentive?” Alex makes an aborted slash through the air with the folder in his hand without looking back; _whatever it is, hell no_. Jefferson ignores him. 

“I’ll see what we can do for them,” he says instead, as Alex reaches for the second drawer and jumps back when a stapler hits the wall beside him with a _clack_. He bites down a triumphant grin as Jefferson hurries to get off the phone. “Great, I’ll let you know. Thanks Hugh - _for fucks sake, Hamilton_.” 

“Jefferson. Glad to catch you at such a good time.” Alex beams and slings himself into the chair across the desk, swings his legs up over the arm just to be an asshole and tosses him the folder. A muscle in Jefferson’s jaw pulses as he reaches for it and flicks it open. 

“Sit properly,” he orders vaguely, without looking at Alex, like he knows it’s pointless but can’t help it anyway. “Decided to actually deliver your own nonsens- this is the exact same thing you sent me this morning.”

“ _Obviously_.” Alex sighs. “Seeing as you struggled so much to figure it out I thought I’d take time out of my busy, important schedule to come _all_ the way down the hall and spell it ou-” 

“This isn’t what we agreed on.”

“Yes it is.”

“ _No_ \- for god’s sake. I’m not doing this with you again. It’s at least ten percent lower than it should be, how’s that work out then, superstar?”

“Oh,” Alex smiles. “I got some news, _apparently_ one of your research projects got pushed back to start next quarter instead. Funny that, you must have forgotten to mention it last week when we hashed out the budget. Or did you not know?” 

Jefferson purses his lips and Alex can tell he’s weighing up his options; lie, pretend he hadn’t known and imply he’s incompetent at his job, or own it for what it is and look like a conniving dick. Alex isn’t surprised when he goes for the latter; they both know which is true anyway, and it’s not like there’s any sense of actual professional respect there. 

“You could have just given me what I wanted in the first place you know,” Jefferson says with a frown and a shrug, completely fucking unrepentant, but he signs the damn contract and throws it back in Alex’s face, at least. “I told you these margins were too tight. There’s no room for-”

“Bullshit,” Alex groans, brings his legs down and considers trying to kick him in the face as he does, even though he won’t reach, because they have another three of Jefferson’s divisions to set budgets for before the end of next week and he’s still fighting Alex over the one _they’ve already fucking agreed on_. “If you can’t bring a project in under an _agreed-upon_ budget then what’s the fucking point of you. That’s your literal job.”

Jefferson flinches. “And yet you _refuse_ to listen to my expertise on it.”

“Why would I listen to someone who just tried to con me into giving him an extra _thirty thousand dollars_?” Alex scoffs. “What the hell were you gonna do with it? Re-tile your penthouse?” He’s not serious, knows Jefferson isn’t that kind of an asshole, but interestingly he smoothly evades instead of answering and it’s more telling than if he’d lied and he’d wanted it for _something_.

“I wouldn’t have _had_ to try if you could see sense-”

“Says the guy who wouldn’t even _consider_ cutting-”

“I can’t cut any of it and you _damn well_ know tha-”

“ _Oh my god let it go, you’ve already fucking signed it_ ,” Alex shouts, balls his fists up to keep from pulling his own hair out. 

Jefferson stands up from his desk abruptly, face tight and stony and storms across his office, pulls open the door. “Alright, you know what? That’s it, I’m done for today. I take it back, send Lucas all week if you like. Get out already.” 

Alex glares. “Gladly,” he stops by the door, makes a leap of intuition, because he’s usually right about these things. “Oh. One more thing; I’m not bribing your construction workers to hurry the fuck up just so they can complete a schedule you were _told_ was _too fucking ambitious_ in the first place.” 

He's on the money, he thinks, because Jefferson’s grip on the door flexes and his jaw clenched and his eyes-

Flick to Alex’s mouth.

Wait _what_ -

“I have _plenty_ of room left in that budget-”

“Not for _financial incentives_ you don’t. I know as well as you do that it’s all already allocated. You’d need an increase to cover your _bribes_ and I damn well won’t-” 

He jumps as Jefferson shuts the door again with a vicious slam, turns furious eyes on him.

“You can't dictate what I can and can’t do within my own goddamn projects-” he hisses.

“I absolutely fucking _can_ -”

“-f _or Christ’ sake stop saying fuck_ ,” Jefferson snaps and his eyes flick back down again, definitely not an accident, face tense and Alex doesn’t really understand why, beyond the fact that _something_ is pissing him off and boy, does Alex always enjoy _that_ so he doubles down, leans forward and up, slow and deliberate, right into his face. 

“ _Fuck_ -”

He’s knocked almost breathless at the shock and impact up his shoulderblades as his back meets the wall of Jefferson’s office, the guy in his face, chest-to-chest, hands pressing hard into Alex’s shoulders and his stupid, expensive cologne seeping into Alex’s pores and it’s when he tries to wriggle away and absolutely can’t that he finds he doesn’t even want to. He can’t _move_ , the solid bulk of Jefferson overbearing and unyielding and it pushes all his buttons so hard that when Jefferson telegraphs his intention but hesitates, hovers and obviously almost rethinks, Alex sets his chin belligerently in challenge, because he just can’t _not_ push; _go on, fucking do it._

And so he does. 

He thinks it should probably feel weird, kissing Jefferson, so hard and crushing that Alex can’t get a read on what he tastes like because it’s all snapping teeth and tongue, but it doesn’t. It’s not nice, but it is _good_. They trade spit like they trade wit; sharp, quick, and toeing the line between playful and vicious, and that demanding entitlement he practically bleeds clearly makes him think he can put his hands fucking _everywhere,_ raising goosebumps wherever they go; at Alex’s neck, pressing his chest back into the wall, at his waist burrowing under his shirt, buried in his hair where he pulls it free, fingers threading and catching again and again. Alex just _knows_ he’s thinking about the other night because a second or two later when he wraps arms around Jefferson’s neck, fists the back of his jacket and yanks him closer, his stupid muscled thigh naturally slotting right up against where Alex is tingling and electric with need already, Jefferson makes a noise, puts teeth against his neck, mutters _god why can’t I stop fucking thinking about it._

“Why the everloving _fuck_ are you trying to _talk_ about it?” Alex hisses, utterly appalled, drops his head back and swallows down a moan as Jefferson mouths at his exposed throat.

“My god, there’s something you _won’t_ talk about?” Alex can practically _hear_ Jefferson’s eyes rolling and scoffs, struggles a little bit just for the sake of it, even though he doesn’t really want to go anywhere and the hand in his hair tugs hard in what might have been intended as a reprimand but that sharp, prickling pain goes straight to his dick instead, and he can’t help the whimpering noise he makes. 

“Like that, don’t you,” gets smeared across his mouth and it feels like the words tingle across the back of his neck and down his back as Jefferson licks inside again, tongue hot on his but a little less snappy, slow enough that Alex can pick out his too-bitter coffee, sharp and strong before he pulls back. “Saw you, when he did that, about to get on your knees right there in that dirty corridor. Did you? Did you suck him off?”

Something flashes across Jefferson’s face when Alex just shakes his head, because there’s too much of him pressed against Alex for him to be able to find his voice to say _no_ without it being unbearably weak and whiny, or to reply at all when he follows up with _wanted to though, didn’t you_. It’s not like it matters; it’s not a real question and he doesn’t need to answer because Jefferson immediately says _god Hamilton, so fucking filthy_ , but even though there's a new edge to his tone it’s full of approval, not condemnation and Alex shivers and flushes under the praise, feels it right the way up to his overheated ears and down to where his toes curl in his shoes and centers somewhere around his hips where they’re grinding up against Jefferson, where Alex can feel him hard up against Alex’s hip and he _wants-_

It’s a bad idea, one that he's probably going to regret sometime very soon but he can't seem to remember _why_ right now because he _really fucking wants it_ , breathless and quivering with how _much_ he wants it, so he pushes at Jefferson’s chest until he gets the message and backs off a little so that Alex can sink to his knees. 

“Jesus, just-” Jefferson bites out, pulls open his pants with a shaky hand so that Alex can get his mouth where they both want it; closed around the head of him, bitter and wet already, swallowing down without hesitation and burying his nose in musky, wiry hair, cataloging the taste and smell of him without that mask of the obscenely expensive shit he obviously sprays everywhere else, all burning hot and thick and he revels in how _deep_ it goes, how full and overwhelmed he feels as Jefferson hisses out _fuck_ _, that- yes, yes_ in a voice that reminds Alex just how very _good_ at this he is, and lays a careful, heavy hand on his head.

“ _Shit_. You’re so much prettier when you’re not talking, you know,” he grunts as Alex pulls back to flick his tongue over the tip before sinking down and Alex pinches him hard on the tender inside of his thigh, wants to say _fuck you_ but doesn’t want to _stop_ , and Jefferson’s hips slam forward reflexively, hand in his hair grabbing tight for a second and _fuck_. Alex’s vision goes a little blurry and he can’t help moaning and spluttering a little around the length pressing insistently down his throat.

“ _Christ_. Is that - _fucking god Hamilton_ \- that how you want it, doll?” Jefferson sounds hoarse and eager and Alex peers up, meets his hungry gaze and hums in agreement, because _fuck it,_ if it’s on offer he’s not going to pass it up and he’s got a feeling Jefferson could really make him choke on it and it’s worth it, when Jefferson groans and his other hand comes to rest on Alex’s head too, fingers winding through his hair and pulling experimentally just _that_ side of hard that makes Alex practically purr. A few careful, testing shoves later and Jefferson thankfully loses all caution, fucking in earnest and using his grip on Alex’s head to grind him against his body. The room is suddenly quiet save for the odd low, rough curse, the occasional moan and the frantic, wet slapping of Jefferson riding his face and the pure obscenity of it has Alex so hard he sees stars. Or maybe that’s because he can’t catch a proper breath, but either way it’s fucking fantastic and he squeezes his wet eyes closed, basks in the ability to focus completely and singularly on his mouth stretched wide and aching, on the perfect feel of a cock holding him open, overpowering everything else until there’s nothing but blissful, quiet peace and the feel of Jefferson moving in his mouth. It’s all he can do amid that onslaught to press a hand down firmly on his own dick to try and stave off the building, burning pressure he feels there but even that is enough to make him moan somewhere high in his throat and Jefferson mutters _god_ _, you love it, don't you._

Before he can worry too much about the very real, _very_ humiliating possibility of coming in his pants and proving him right - and Alex is not sure which is worse - Jefferson’s hips stall and he hisses _fuck I’m-_ and Alex is on a roll with his great decision making skills today because he hollows his cheeks, _sucks_ for all he’s worth, slides his hands around the backs of Jefferson’s thighs and holds him firmly stuffed as far into Alex as he can go, telegraphs _go on, do it_ with every pass of his tongue. It’s not lost on Jefferson, who stifles a groan, slams himself deep and comes.

Alex is gasping and breathless as he pulls off, frantically tries to get his own belt and pants undone, get a hand on himself but he’s sharply yanked up, pulled against Jefferson’s chest and kissed, deep and open mouthed and sloppy and Thomas _stuck-up_ Jefferson eagerly licking the taste of himself out of Alex’s mouth fries his brain to mush so completely that he can’t process, can’t remember what he was meant to be doing, just pants as Jefferson grinds Alex against him. His eyes are unfocused and blown and Alex begrudgingly has to admit it’s a good look on him, not as haughty, a little more wild and human and Alex suddenly wishes he’d been watching, that he’d seen his face when he came, imagines what that might have looked like and groans in frustration when his cock throbs against Jefferson’s thigh, too little friction and he needs- _something_. He’s got too much space, he-

He doesn’t know if he’s spoken aloud or if Jefferson just has fucking fantastic instincts, but a second later Alex’s wrists are crossed behind his back, trapped under the weight of both their bodies and it’s _good,_ as Jefferson wiggles a hand between them to palm his cock, pulls back to see Alex properly. Alex wonders if he, too, wants to see the exact moment his rival comes undone, or maybe he just wants to look, because his eyes are hot and branding and they don’t ever travel far before going back to his mouth. Alex knows what he looks like; he’s seen it enough, can imagine how his lips are red and puffy, how he looks _used_ , and he whines a little as Jefferson presses a heavy thumb there as he works Alex quick and tight and hard. 

“ _Your goddamn mouth_ , Jesus Christ-”

“Just Alexander will d-” Alex half-cracks hoarsely around the digit, hysterical chuckle breaking off into a wobbly moan when Jefferson leans down and sucks a deep, biting bruise at his collar in admonishment, because, fair, it’s a shitty joke, and the sharp harsh pain is so sudden and so sweet that he sinks his teeth hard into the pad of Jefferson’s thumb as he shakes apart.

As he comes down from the high, panting and dazed, Jefferson just sort of _looks_ at him, almost nose-to-nose, a little confused like he's not really sure what the fuck just happened or what to do about it, and so Alex closes his eyes until Jefferson lets go and backs away from him because it's fucking _weird_ to be stared at like that.

"I didn't mean to hurt your back," Jefferson blurts out as Alex puts himself back together, and when Alex glances up, not even thinking about the pleasant ache in his shoulders, he looks contrite, albeit obviously reluctantly so at the notion of offering _Alex_ an almost-apology but of course Jefferson can’t even hatefuck without getting all southern gentleman about it afterward, Jesus fucking Christ. "If I-"

"You didn't," Alex snorts, because he’s had worse and liked it, and while he may not be feeling particularly great about what he just did and who he just did it to, it’s better now everything mostly makes sense again. He’d never really thought of their bickering as anything more than aggressive rivalry at worst, harmless, almost-flirting at best, certainly never I’m-down-for-a-casual-facefucking-if-you-are but _okay_ , he’s caught up now, and weirdly enough it calms his jitters completely as his categorization of Jefferson solidifies into something slightly different than before but nonetheless comfortably secure now that he understands this new angle, this new motivation-

“Hamilton, I blow my nose with that, you _animal_ -” Jefferson suddenly protests, and Alex looks down at where he's wiping at the ropes of come on his shirt with a handkerchief he's grabbed from the man's desk. 

To be honest, Alex is doing him a favour. It's fucking _monogrammed_. 

He shrugs, takes the blessed moment of normality and runs with it, drops the crumpled fabric - _gaudy, magenta T.J facing up_ \- helpfully into the hand that is still covered in Alex’s own cooling come and throws him a wink. 

“You know, you should really open a window in here Jefferson, it fucking _stinks_.”

* * *

He avoids Jefferson all the way into the following week, because despite the healthy mutual antagonism they have going, he’s sort of concerned those lofty sensibilities will have him wanting to _clear the air_ or _discuss_ _it_ and the thought makes him legitimately queasy, because who the fuck does that?

Alex has never understood that need, that pointless obligation, when that post-coital atmosphere turns stifling and awkward and he has to suddenly backtrack from having someone literally ejaculate on him to _so what do you do_ or _where do you come from_ like anyone fucking cares when all they’re really doing is wasting time dancing around the question _how long should we talk for before one of us leaves._ Or even worse, being expected _not_ to leave; waking up the following morning cuddled up to someone he doesn’t really know, too-close and too-warm and too-sweaty, up against his back like it was an overnight _date_ , intimacy and nausea bubbling up his throat like acid until he can’t breathe. 

He’s tried dating. He doesn’t like it; it’s annoying and pointless and mostly bullshit and not remotely worth his time and effort considering he doesn’t even really need to do it to get someone on board for a fuck; Alex never needs much enticing, and once he’s conveyed _take me home and fuck me up,_ neither do his partners. He gets what he needs just fine from mutually beneficial arrangements - though he’s between those right now and no wonder he’s strung out enough to think _Jefferson_ looks like an appealing option - until they eventually fizzle out, usually when Alex gets bored, or sometimes when someone wants him to call them _daddy,_ which happens weirdly often and mostly makes Alex want to gag or burst out laughing, neither of which are especially helpful in maintaining those particular _friendships._

Alex can count on one hand the amount of people he’s fucked and continued to associate with, long-term, and he lives with all three of them, considers them _friends I’ve had sex with_ as opposed to _a means to an end_ and it keeps him out of trouble.

Luckily Lafayette and Hercules have been a done deal since Christmas of sophomore year - and no one has ever let Hercules forget that it could have been since _freshman orientation_ had he not been so obliviously clueless for the next eighteen months - so he’s never been at all concerned about any aftermath coming from the odd occasions that they’ve put Alex between them and taken him apart, and John- 

Well John was a funny one; four years into the most solid of friendship, the occasional lay here and there when they were hard up, on the same page, Alex had been pretty sure, right right up until the apartment above theirs sprung a leak right into John’s bedroom. He’d bunked in with Alex for a week or two while the owners fixed it up and then renovated and Alex had been fine with it because _why not_. It was kind of weird, but not _bad_ , not being alone, warm bed instead of cold. It was nice and comfortable right up until John had leaned in absently to kiss him, sweet and affectionate and out of fucking nowhere on his way out to class one morning and Alex had knocked his cereal all over the table in his distress, milk soaking into his books as John floundered and said _erm_ a lot before leaving. 

Alex remembers hyperventilating for half an hour and then packing a panic-bag full of soggy pages and running off to Eliza’s. He’d stayed on her couch for three weeks, claimed he couldn’t think or study properly with the work going on above. When the renovations were done he’d stayed another week and a half; citing a need to be closer to the library and other such mounting ridiculousness, and he’s still not really sure what his plan was there, whether he’d have just lived buried under a mound of Eliza’s decorative pillows and a huge pile of _nope_ forever, until John had blessedly called and yelled _stop fucking freaking out_ at him in various intonations for ten solid minutes and then before Alex could babble his way off the phone said _it’s not like that-_ and _I wasn’t thinking-_ and _I know that's not-_ and when Alex had wavered, John had said _anyway, I met someone_ and launched into a meet-cute. The sudden relief of having that pressure removed mingled with how much he fucking _missed_ John had dislodged his discomfort enough that he’d gone home that same evening to hear the end of the story in person over cheap beers and slightly-less-cheap weed. 

Later he’d thanked a god he didn’t believe in that John dove into relationships with as much gusto as Alex avoided them because even if there _had_ been something there, John had steamrollered past it so hard that it wasn’t even weird ten months later when that sad, doomed relationship fell apart and he’d slid himself into Alex’s bed one night. Alex had hesitated for a fraction of a second until John had rolled his eyes and said _don’t be dumb, it’s just sex_ and so he’d thought _fuck it_ and let John take what he needed, until even that had fizzled out into a comfortable, easy nothing before Alex had even taken the King internship. He’d spent that whole summer learning to say _tie me down and rough me up_ with just his body and made the incredibly practical decision to keep those Venn diagram circles of _people I have sex with_ and _people I spend time with_ blessedly, entirely separate and with that space had come a calming, detached sort of control he’s never been willing to fracture.

He has a hard enough time keeping his shit together as it is sometimes, he really doesn’t need to disrupt the one part he _actually_ has a handle on.

So Alex steers clear of Jefferson for a week or so until it’s been long enough that they can pretend it never happened, because Jefferson skirts far too close to that line of _people I spend time with_ for Alex to be completely comfortable, even if that time is only because he gets paid to, and because he’s still a smug, entitled asshole and the only reason Alex is not more worried that the whole thing will be thrown in his face at any given moment is that _Jefferson definitely started it._

He resolves that it happened. It was good. That’s it. 

If he happens to spend an inordinate amount of extra time in the shower every day, hand on himself and half his fist shoved into his mouth thinking about it, well that’s his own business and entirely irrelevant.

* * *

It strikes him, a week later with no small amount of irritation, how much time it turns out he actually spends with Jefferson, because it’s actually really fucking difficult to stay away. At least three times a day he has to stop from meandering down the corridor to have a face-to-face _discussion_ about something - as eloquent as he is on paper, Alex finds it a lot easier to argue in person when he can gauge reactions and body language, though granted with Jefferson those tend to be _disbelief_ and _infuriated_ respectively - and resigns himself to having to send snotty email after snotty email instead. 

It’s not like he’s got any extra time; he’s already working on getting definitive agreements from the swing members of the board that they’ll be ready to sign on the dotted line when he proposes his consolidation plan next meeting. Angelica and John are already his, he knows, and he’s not touching Madison or Adams or Wilkinson yet. They’re for much later, firmly holding out until Jefferson does so there’s no point trying there, he needs to go straight for Jefferson if he wants them on board. Wilkinson _might_ be slightly easier pickings, young and from money and so throwing his lot in with Jefferson and hoping for the best because like begets like, but he’s newer and ambitious and Alex could maybe offer him something he can’t refuse. He’ll think on that.

No, Alex is focusing on those ones in the middle, those people that don’t pick sides when he and Jefferson turn meetings into shouting matches. Though Burr lies on the fence, Alex has known him long enough to know once Alex has won everyone over Burr will act like he’d been on side all along, so he’s not worried there, and he thinks Thorne will agree to anything Alex puts in front of him as long as Alex promises nothing will affect his upcoming retirement fund. While Alex loathes to send the guy off into the sunset with a cool couple million - because someone who gives that little of a shit really isn’t that great at PR, especially now he’s so close to the end - it’s worth it in the long term and actually, Alex should really start thinking about who’d benefit him most to replace Thorne so he can start maneuvering them into place. Wolcott’s proving awkward, but Alex will find a way around him eventually, he’s just not figured out exactly what makes him tick yet, but he will, and Washington-

Well, Alex knows his boss is on board. Alex knows it would have been in the bag the second he’d gone to the man and said _we need to do this_ because he trusts Alex to know these things, to know what kind of a company he’s trying to create. It would have been done already if it had purely been up to Washington but it’s not. They have other shareholders besides him that he’s too beholden to, that sunk their aristocrat old-money cash into helping them keep afloat at the point of takeover and now get to lord it over everyone. Shareholders that insisted on _Adams_ as their respected peer being appointed VP to balance out the board because they thought Washington had already hand-picked too many members from his loyal pool of interns and baby-executives and Alex knows his boss chafes under that leash, but then, it’s always been Alex’s job to help him work around the obstacles that keep him from running this company how _he_ wants to, even when it wasn't _his._

Regardless of what Alex thinks of the man, Adams will sign eventually, he knows. Adams will sign because he doesn’t have a _good_ reason not to. He hides behind Jefferson to keep from admitting that he doesn’t want to share the wealth, to pass it around to keep their smaller, less successful satellites from struggling, even as the ones owned by his buddies thrive and profit. It’s the same reason Jefferson’s so against it, Alex thinks; selfish, elitist bastards the both of them but Jefferson at least has enough balls about him to be able to put up some resistance without having to actually say it. Once Alex can shoot all that shit down successfully, once Jefferson has no choice but to begrudgingly get on board, no doubt dragging Madison with him, then Adams will follow, because he has no argument left and Alex will get his way. 

Alex always gets his way, and he will in this instance too, he just needs some time to figure out the details, the _how_ and _who_ and _what_ of it, and so he throws himself into those plans instead of thinking about how weird it is not spending half his time trading barbs and glares with a guy that he’d been pretty sure, up until last week, wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. 

It doesn’t sound like many people see Jefferson that week either and those that do don’t have pleasant stories to tell, which is almost unheard of because Jefferson might drip condescension and self-importance on most days but he’s never been a real take-it-out-on-your-colleagues sort of guy, too proper and stiff and formal to really belt out his annoyance at someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Unless it’s at Alex, who, to be fair, _is_ usually the deserving culprit of said annoyance - and he’s not going to lie it makes it a little sweeter when Jefferson does snap, knowing it’s against all his better instincts, that Alex has wormed his way in behind all that uptight conditioning and gotten to the real, tangible inside of him - but on Thursday Alex is eating lunch with Peggy and Burr, spring weather nice enough to hop up onto the wall of the fountain outside their building, when John pushes his way out of the double doors and slings himself up next to Alex with a groan.

“Seriously, what the actual fuck is wrong with Jefferson this week?” he spits. “He just made Theresa _cry_. I had to tell her three times that no-one thinks she’s a _human dishcloth_ before I could get away.” 

Alex coughs away his laugh, because Theresa really does have the personality of a wet paper bag, until he realizes that they’re all three waiting on him expectantly. 

“Don’t look at me, I haven’t done anything.” Peggy scoffs _sure you haven’t_ at him and Alex pulls a face. “No, really, I haven’t even _spoken_ to him since last week.”

“Maybe that’s our problem then,” Burr says, smirk in his voice but not on his face. “Who’d have thought the presence of you and your mouth made for so much of a difference, Alexander.” 

Alex chokes rather inelegantly on a piece of bread. John slaps him rather unhelpfully on the back until he recovers enough to send a hopefully-not-too-brittle smile back, because he _couldn’t_ know, he’s just being Burr, all that _we have known each other a long time and are very good friends_ and also _motherfucker I hope you choke to death every single day_ energy at the exact same time because he can’t pick a fucking lane and decide whether he likes or despises Alex.

“I’m in no doubt that everyone who has ever met me deems me nothing but a delight to be around, Aaron,” Alex says brightly, if a little hoarse, balling up his sandwich wrapper. “Maybe I _should_ go and shower some of that on our dear Operations Director. I’m sure he’d be thrilled.”

Burr laughs a little more freely and Alex assumes his innocence is clearly convincing enough, at least for today. “Do warn us when you intend to do that so we can evacuate the building.” 

“Can it not be until after I’ve switched in a new server this afternoon please,” John adds, beseeching around a mouth full of greenery. “The whole process is quite delicate and I’d rather not have to do it during a nuclear blast.” 

Peggy cackles into her muffin.

“You are all hilarious.” Alex says flatly. “I’m going to have lunch with Theresa tomorrow, you see if I don’t.”

* * *

_[Ang] -_ Whatever you did to Jefferson, fix it  
 _[A.Ham] -_ What the fuck  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Why do you care  
 _[Ang] -_ I don't   
_[Ang] -_ But I've been hearing that poor woman snivel around the offices all afternoon   
_[Ang] -_ And I'm sick of it  
 _[Ang] -_ Fix it so he apologizes, because it's annoying  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Firstly, I didn't do anything  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Secondly, close your door  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Thirdly, maybe if she wasn't such a fucking lettuce this wouldn't have happened anyway  
 _[Ang] -_ 1) I don't believe you  
 _[Ang] -_ 2) Some of us go down to the bullpens because we like to actually include our teams  
 _[Ang] -_ 3) Why must you always insult people by calling them inanimate objects  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Only those I refuse to believe possess a brain   
_[Ang] -_ See. This is definitely your doing, somehow  
 _[Ang] -_ FIX IT ALEX

* * *

The second time it happens, admittedly, is probably _mostly_ on Alex.

* * *

The thing is that he can actually hazard a pretty good guess at what has Jefferson so edgy, and whatever any of those assholes think, it’s really _not_ Alex.   
  
Not all of it.

Alex hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d gone in on the ambitious construction schedule. Jefferson has fallen somewhat foul of his own corporate allies recently; Adams and Wilkinson had recently met with Adam’s old buddy John Lee, whose newest business venture is to be housed inside the building-in-progress to discuss them investing, because Adams is the guy in charge of that shit and just fucking _loves_ to sink all of that cash back into his own goddamn peer group instead of diversifying a little, but whatever. The assholes had promptly and happily agreed to an expedited construction schedule on Jefferson’s behalf - a schedule that Jefferson had _already_ taken note from Mercer’s team was a little too zealous and dialed back - had assured Lee that they’d have no issue in seeing it done for an old friend, in exchange for a little _quid-pro-quo_ , of course. 

Personally Alex would have lost his shit and told them all to _get fucked_ if he’d been in Jefferson’s position - there may even have been projectiles in such a scenario, if he’d been backed against a wall like that - but then Alex was not in Jefferson’s position. Alex had actually been told in no uncertain terms that he was banned from the top floor where the conference and meeting rooms were for that entire afternoon just to keep him well out of sight until that deal was secured. He’d been relegated to his office for the _entire fucking day_ to avoid reminding Lee of that one time Alex and John had broken his asshole of a son’s jaw during Washington’s takeover of the conglomerate. 

Nobody had wanted to rub it in his face that Alex had somehow not only managed to _not_ get fired but had wound up Financial Director of the company that emerged from the ashes. 

Well. Not _nobody_. If Washington hadn’t been the one to pass down that ban, Alex would have rubbed it in Lee’s face on purpose. 

Instead of snapping, Jefferson had locked his jaw and smiled through clenched teeth that it _wasn’t ideal but he was sure he could make it work_ ; Alex assumes he didn’t think the incident was worth alienating his biggest allies aside from Madison, but now he’s undoubtedly struggling to deliver on their promise. 

It’s a situation Alex himself has compounded; outright rejecting _financial incentives_ and vetoing _bribes_ so completely that he’d shut down the topic entirely. Alex can well see the implications that failing to fulfill that now-binding agreement would have; hundreds of thousands in contractual obligations, but he’s drawn that line too completely and they’re both too proud to cross it right now. There’s no fucking way Alex is going to back down and authorize bonuses for completing on time. Personally he thinks it’s more likely to lead to more trouble than it’s worth; risking shoddy, inefficient work in order to meet the goal they’re so far away from. Besides, he’s given the whole thing so much of a _fuck no_ that Jefferson hasn’t even asked, hasn’t lowered himself to actually put in the budget increase request. Nor would the man’s pride allow him to come back to Alex with an alternative suggestion because then surely that would validate Alex’s initial _unreasonable_ objection to the idea in the first place. 

It’s a tricky position, to be sure, one they all too often manage to wrangle themselves into with knee-jerk anger and too much pride until someone snaps and yells at them, but that hasn’t really happened yet and it’s currently Jefferson’s problem so Alex is studiously _not_ worrying about it. If it were anyone else, Alex might feel a little guilty at how much pressure they must be under, but it’s _not_ anyone else and instead he resolutely holds fast. Jefferson could do with a little humbling anyway, he thinks, running a highlighter through the majority of a paragraph of one of the guy’s update reports concerning a different project, adding his scrawl to the margin; _great work, it must have taken actual effort to entirely avoid any mention of where all our fucking money went during this phase_ and then growls and has to add an arrow underneath to a further, revised note because Jefferson never reads his comments unless they’re less than ten words. _HOW THE FUCK DID YOU SPEND 30K ON THIS._

He shoves the report aside in annoyance, because he’d picked it up to try and calm down from the agitation he’d worked himself up into ironing out one of the very last loopholes in his proposal and he’s completely fucking failed in that effort, more frustrated and on edge than ever, can’t stop shifting in his chair and tapping his toes insistently against the floor even though the very noise of it is pissing him off even more. 

Well. If Alex can’t read this report to calm himself down into a mood that he can actually work with, because it’s _utter horseshit_ , then maybe he can still use it to calm down in another way. Because it’s _utter horseshit_.

Because Alex is antsy and pissed off and it’s definitely Jefferson’s fault for not even being able to write a fucking report properly.

Maybe telling Jefferson so will jolt his brain back on track. 

Alex doesn’t tend to have much company in the office after six; transient guests only. Burr’s around sometimes, he finds it easier to focus when it’s quieter. Thorne’s been staying later and later recently because his give-a-fuck meter is starting to expire during the day and it’s leaving him with more work than if he’d just done it in the first place. On very odd occasions John will come in overnight; company-wide system reboots and IT overhauls are always best done when no one will be interrupted, and will mostly let his minions do the actual work while he comes and bugs Alex into taking a break and ordering takeout. 

So the fact that Jefferson’s still around at a quarter-to-seven on a Thursday evening is yet another sign that things really aren’t going his way right now. He doesn’t even look up at first when Alex storms in, indignant and tense, spoiling for a fight, and when he eventually does he lets out a noise that sounds like the bastard child of a sigh and a groan and he says _whatever it is, Hamilton, can we just - for once- not, please._

He’s slumped back in his chair, his ever-present posture lost, stress and exhaustion bleeding from every pore, and his suit has been shed down to a plain pastel shirt, tie still immaculately in place but sleeves rolled up to his elbows in the sort of casual state Alex has very rarely seen inside the office, even at holiday parties. Alex’s brain sticks incredibly _unhelpfully_ on the visible curve of his wrists, typically hidden under cuffs and weirdly vulnerable to see on display like that. It pulls him up short and he wavers, comes to an almost comical, skidding stop in the middle of the room, because that _please_ sounds far too genuine, _for them_ , and all the ire and annoyance floods right out of him in his bewilderment, leaves him with only the buzz of anxious, shaky energy thrumming in his veins. 

He’s suddenly not really sure what to do, lost in the unchartered waters of being in a room with Jefferson and _not_ using caustic sarcasm or puffed-up annoyance, and he doesn’t like it, not knowing what’s expected of him now, it makes his chest tight and uncomfortable and he ends up sidling forward to slip the report onto the edge of Jefferson’s desk in lieu of anything _else_ to do because he has to have come in here for _something_ otherwise it will look even fucking weirder.

“I just- yeah. Okay,” he says, really fucking lamely, actually, and cringes at himself as Jefferson’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

“Thanks?”

Alex recognizes his own bemusement on Jefferson’s face and exhales noisily. _Fuck_ , but this is awkward now. He thinks he should probably leave, but the agitation still twisting in his stomach and the sting of his pride at actually relenting to Jefferson for once won’t let him, until he gets back on top of it.

And then there’s that other thing; that thing where he kind of wants to smooth out those unnatural stress-lines. He can’t pinpoint exactly _why_ , considering most days he actively enjoys putting them there, but it’s probably because Jefferson looks especially pathetic. Like that entire year he and John had let Herc dominate the Mortal Kombat leaderboard because he was so fucking depressed with Laf across the globe that beating him at it felt kind of like kicking a puppy instead of that satisfying, triumphant thing Alex feels normally when he wins at literally anything else.

That’s definitely it.

It’s definitely not anything to do with how he’s spent the last week and a bit jerking off helplessly in the shower to the memory of Jefferson’s dick in his mouth, or because he can still see Jefferson’s bare fucking _wrists_ that he can’t stop looking at.

It’s definitely because he looks so pitifully tense that instead of leaving, Alex cocks his hip, leans up against the side of Jefferson’s desk and asks;

“So did you _actually_ call Theresa a human dishcloth?”

The tension in the air and in Jefferson’s shoulders eases a little as he barks a surprised laugh and rubs a hand over his eyes with a groan. “ _God_ that woman. I know I should feel bad but there’s just _nothing_ there. She’s like-”

“A black hole where independent thought and personality go to _die_?” Alex grins and Jefferson huffs into his hands, sounding pained.

“I gave her a stack of things to fax to Nathanael Greene, because the man is living in the dark ages, but whatever-” Alex snorts and hops up on the corner of his desk because nobody’s quite heard what the fuck had set Jefferson off, far too wary to ask after the initial unusual outburst, and it was bound to be reasonably entertaining. “-I even stuck a post-it on the top for good measure. _FAX ME_. Really not that difficult-”

“-how _delightfully_ patronizing of you-”

“-so Greene calls me up and I come to find that she’s literally just faxed only the post it-” 

“Fucking _amazing_. Surely on purpose. It’s what I’d do-”

“Because _you’re_ a shit," he rolls his eyes. Alex swings a leg out to kick at him. Jefferson swats his ankle away. “But no. That’s what I thought, so I go to her like, _I suppose you think this is funny_ and she genuinely has no clue what I’m talking about.”

Alex can’t hold it together anymore and smothers his snickers into his elbow, creasing forward to shake with helpless laughter. 

“I’m glad _you_ think it’s hilarious,” Jefferson sighs, looks at him a little bemused. 

“You- you called her a human dishcloth-” Alex hiccups through another snort. “-and made her _cry_.” 

Fuck, he’s a terrible human being that _that_ is what sets him off in another round of hysterics. Jefferson groans again, obviously agrees with his assessment. “You’re going to Hell. _I’m_ going to Hell. God. She was just so _blank_. At least if she _had_ done it on purpose I’d be able to appreciate the sheer fucking nerve. I should apologize tomorrow, I don’t know what came over me.”

“Losing your temper and insulting your colleagues?” Alex chuckles, wipes at his wet eyes. “I know imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, Jefferson, but can you pull your head out of my ass?”

Jefferson rolls his eyes and seems to look up, actually take proper note of Alex sat on his desk and frowns.

“I don’t know what’s more terrifying, the fact that you’re _that_ comfortably self-aware, or that you’re the only person on this floor who hasn’t come in here to scold me for being an asshole.” Alex shrugs.

“I already know you’re an asshole. S’not news to me. Somehow they’re all still surprised. Besides, miraculously, I actually agree with you. The woman’s a fucking doorknob.”

Jefferson pulls a face at his bluntness. “If only you could be reasonable about any other topic besides how horrifically dull our poor copy girl is.”

And there it is, Alex thinks, recognizing the sudden, dull flare of irritation burn in his chest. _Unreasonable_. It’s rote; Jefferson’s absolute _favorite_ grievance and Alex fucking hates it. Anytime he disagrees, he’s _unreasonable_. It’s worse than anything else Jefferson chooses to throw at him, because it’s _not fucking true_. Alex has reasons, whether Jefferson believes that or not. He doesn’t just disagree for kicks. _Most of the time, anyway_. He has his _very good reasons_ and sometimes he can’t help but feel that the fact that Jefferson doesn’t agree with him speaks more to Alex’s deficiency than it does to his colleague’s. Jefferson’s a smart man, it can’t be denied; the fact that Alex can’t _make_ him understand feels like a failure of his own eloquence, like if he could only find the right argument, the right words, that Jefferson would surely see sense on something for once. 

When Jefferson says _unreasonable_ , Alex hears _you haven’t made your point well enough_ and he can’t _stand_ it.

Alex glares down as the mood sours and drops, catches himself again on Jefferson’s exposed, bare wrists. There’s an imprint on his skin where he’s worn his watch too tight for hours and removed it, tired and stressed at the end of a long day, the fine hairs there flat and slightly sweaty and it feels like _too much_ in some way that having had his cock in Alex’s mouth last week didn’t somehow and Alex _does_ have reasons, goddamn it, very good reasons-

“I’m concerned that dangling a bonus for completion could lead to rushed, shitty work in order to make the cut,” he spits suddenly like there hasn’t been over a week between the two conversations, too keen to make it clear and prove that point. “It’s pointless and uneconomical if we just end up having to shell out again in a year or two to compensate for botched construction, or worse, for safety lawsuits later down the line.”

Jefferson is silent for such a long time that Alex risks a glance up to find the guy staring at him intently like he’s a particularly vexing puzzle. Alex doesn’t like it, because there's nothing confusing here. He’s only spoken in the name of making sure they don’t have to pay out a hefty fee for breaching a contract, and to prove a damn point. He shifts uncomfortably and is just about to slide down and leave when the man speaks.

“What about overtime then?” he offers carefully. Slowly, like it sort of hurts. “They’ll be less likely to rush, possibly even more inclined to be more comprehensive in order to claim more extra pay, if thorough attention to detail is your problem.”

“Budget-” Alex grits out, almost doesn’t want to, but he can't set this precedent, he can't just _give in_. Jefferson inhales sharply like he’s about to snap. “-look, there isn’t a magic fucking money tree, Jefferson. In theory, yeah, okay, but it’s still extra and it has to come from somewhere. What future project is getting cut for it? What's getting put off until next month? Who isn’t getting paid so that all these guys can get overtime-”

“Commission,” Jefferson says suddenly, freezing, and Alex blinks. “Can you take it out of their commission?”

Alex almost goes to ask what the fuck he’s talking about before he catches on and stops, because Adams and Wilkinson will be getting a _hefty_ bonus for securing that investment, for bringing on Lee as an affiliate and _hell yes_ he can absolutely offset it against their bottom-line, take-home figure, justify the deduction as _necessary_ to complete a deal _they’d_ damn well agreed to in the first place and it’s perfect. It’s so completely, vengefully petty of Jefferson, the guys that had put him in this position taking complete financial flak for it that Alex doesn’t even mind being the harbinger of that bad news because he’s reluctantly, unwillingly, impressed.

Not that he’ll ever say that. 

“What did you come down here for, Hamilton?” Jefferson asks apropos of nowhere, like he doesn’t actually want Alex to answer his suggestion in case it’s a reflexive _no_. Alex gets the feeling Jefferson wants to distract him, let it settle in his mind and have him think on it before he kicks it away on autopilot and he wonders how many times the man has used that particular strategy because he’ll have to remember it, it’s sneaky and probably works on him more often than he’d like to admit, even if it’s redundant on this occasion. 

“Just bringing that report,” Alex shrugs, hops down and moves to leave because his curious tone has an edge that makes Alex want to squirm a bit and he doesn’t want to give Jefferson the satisfaction of seeing that, but a strong hand closes around his arm and he stops abruptly. 

“Bullshit,” Jefferson says firmly, tugs on Alex’s arm and repeats himself, _what did you come down here for,_ except it’s harder and more authoritative, an implicit demand in his tone and Alex acquiesces without thought;

“To bitch at you until my brain shut up for a second.” 

Alex doesn’t know what’s written across his own face, but Jefferson’s expression clears slowly at something he sees there and Alex schools it studiously blank, grits his teeth and tries not to flush under the scrutiny. He feels like he’s just given away something that he shouldn’t have, that he’d never intended to as Jefferson suddenly smiles, too smug, too pleased with himself, and tugs again until Alex steps close enough for Jefferson’s knees to knock his thighs. 

“So that’s what it’s about with you half the time, is it?” 

Fuck. Well, he’s said it now. Best to own it and act like he’d not screwed up. Alex shrugs.  
  
“Not my fault you’re so fucking easy to yell at. May as well get something out of it.” 

“Surely there are easier ways to clear your mind,” Jefferson says carefully, really fucking unsubtly like he's giving Alex time to catch up, like he thinks maybe Alex _hadn’t_ immediately gone there the second the anger had left him at the sight of soft, sweaty, dark skinned _wrists_ , like Alex hasn’t been thinking about getting his mouth back on Jefferson’s self-important dick every single day since he’d found out how fucking good it could be, like Jefferson’s eyes aren’t _already_ on his mouth and Alex sort of _snaps_ a little.

He doesn’t do this awkward, hovering, softly-softly bullshit and he’s not about to start now. If this is where they're at, _fine_. He wants it, Jefferson wants it. No fucking around. 

Jefferson might want it, but he still looks surprised, face half-frozen when Alex drops to the floor between his knees and curls his fingers in the material of his pants, like despite his cocky, confident expression he’d not totally believed Alex would do it. He tracks the movement of Alex’s tongue when he wets his lips on purpose and _okay then_ , this Alex can work with, he thinks. He can do it like that, play that game, corny and pornographic to make it easier for him to swallow, so to speak, and so he does; blinks wide-eyed and as innocent as he can do while leaning in to the bulge already pressing at Jefferson’s seam, aims for coy and whispers _can I_ , and shivers involuntarily when Jefferson’s grip on his arm tightens. 

“You ask me nice like that you can have anything you damn please-” Jefferson says roughly, plays along, guides his head closer with a steady hand before he pauses. “-except that fucking plan of yours. I still won’t-”

“Fuck you,” Alex scowls, drops the game immediately to snap at him. Well, maybe that's not going to work then. He's not going to be able to put on airs and pretend Jefferson is someone he actually _likes_. He tries to ignore how that makes something low in his gut stir even more insistently. “As if I’d need to. That’s entirely fuckin’ separate. Find your own fuckin’ stress relief if you’re gonna be a dick-”

”Alright, alright, Jesus,” Jefferson rolls his eyes, placating. “Stress relief,” he repeats, slower.   
  
Alex hums in agreement, doesn’t elaborate one which one of them he’s wanting to relieve, because he’s not about to admit just how much peace he finds on his knees. He thinks it’s probably clear anyway, maybe in his face or in the way he knows his diction has already slipped in his shaky anticipation, or maybe Jefferson really did pick up last time how much Alex fucking loves it, but either way he smiles like he knows Alex doesn’t give a damn about relieving _his_ stress and when he speaks it’s like _he’s_ the one doing the favor here.

”Nobody finds out about this-“

Alex glares up and gestures to how he’s sprawled between Jefferson’s knees. “Fuckin’ _obviously._ Does it _look_ like I'm proud of myself right now. For fuck’s sake, you gimme any more shit and I’ll fuckin’ bite you-”

Jefferson scowls. “Bite me and I’ll wring your damn neck-”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Christ, Hamilton, just shut the fuck up and come here already,” Jefferson growls, tugs hard on Alex’s collar to bring him back close.   
  
Alex allows it, allows himself to be drawn back into the vee of his legs, allows his face to be pressed firmly into the front of Jefferson’s pants where he’s still mostly hard, nuzzles along the length of it under the fabric with his nose, can’t help the pleased, satisfied noise he makes as he mouths at the cloth-covered head until he’s fully hard and Alex can taste Jefferson’s own anticipation though the material. He hears Jefferson swear under his breath as he pulls open his belt and drags his pants and boxers down to his thighs, offers his dick to Alex though there’s a hand in his hair holding him back from doing much more than brushing the tip of it lightly with his lips, painting them in slick.   
  
“That’s what you want, isn’t it? That's what you came for." 

Alex meets his gaze and licks the mess from his lips instead of speaking, because he can fuck off, because _no,_ or maybe _yes,_ he's not totally sure now, but either way Alex is not about to fucking _say_ that. Jefferson raises an eyebrow that might have looked imperious and unaffected if his chest wasn’t heaving and his leaking cock wasn’t almost poking Alex right in the eye. The grip on Alex’s hair goes slack as Jefferson says _go on then_ and gives him room to play as he pleases, which he does; inhales against silky soft skin as he runs his lips down the shaft, feels wet smeared up his cheek as he goes, opens his mouth and licks sloppily up the thick vein on the underside on his way back up.   
  
Jefferson’s legs tense and he draws in a sharp breath as Alex dips his tongue into the weeping slit quickly, sucking lightly on the head of him for only a second before slowly sinking down to take him deep. He closes his eyes in pleasure, swallowing around the obstruction in his throat _once, twice, three_ times before pulling back with a wet pop, can feel the dribble of spit dripping down his chin and moans at the feel of it as he licks over the tip once more with the flat of his his tongue, before repeating the whole slow, torturous process again. And again.

He gets lost in it, dragging it out, playing Jefferson’s dick like a recorder, his own throbbing between his legs insistently. It might not be his absolute favorite way to do this but shit, it’s _fun_. There’s a heady appeal to this control he has right now, though he doesn’t think it’s going to last long based purely on the reflexing clench and unclench of the hand on his head and the aborted thrusts of Jefferson’s hips every so often. Alex makes the most of it, this opportunity to taste and tease and torment until he snaps and gives Alex what he really wants, what Alex knows he _can_ give, without him having to ask for it, excited anticipation and impatience and burning arousal merging addictively in his groin with that old, familiar, satisfying pleasure he always gets from goading Jefferson until he loses his shit.  
  
Alex smirks to himself at the choked-off groan the next time he pulls back and off again, moves further down to tongue around his balls, drawn up tight and tense, hears Jefferson growl at the tease and feels him pull the elastic out of Alex’s hair to get a better grip to haul him back up to slip his dick back between Alex’s lips. After the next slow slide down, throat fluttering around the obstruction, rising to pull back, Jefferson gives in completely, mutters _shit- you fucking-_ and wraps Alex’s hair tight around his fist. He presses down heavy and hard on the back of Alex’s head and holds him there, grinds up into Alex’s face with a groan as Alex closes his eyes, swallows around a noise of his own, spit pooling obscenely at the base of Jefferson’s cock where his lips can’t seal properly, entire brainpower singularly focused on trying not to choke around the length holding his jaw wide, _yes, yes just like that._

“-just gonna fuck around down there until I use you properly, aren’t you?” Jefferson grunts, punctuating with a sharp thrust up into Alex’s mouth as he holds him down. Alex whines impatiently, _get the fuck on with it._

Jefferson thrusts up hard again and Alex almost sobs with it, swallows hard and can’t stop from whining again as his throat tries to close but can’t. Jefferson hisses out a breath that almost sounds like a whine himself. 

“ _Jesus Christ, Hamilton,_ ” he says roughly, “Gonna. Gonna give it to you just how you want.”   
  
Fucking _finally_. 

He raps hard on the top of one of Alex’s hands, both clutched in the material of Jefferson’s pants around his thighs; an obvious reminder of his option to tap out. It occurs to Alex suddenly, distractingly, as he’s yanked firmly up Jefferson’s cock, that this is a heavy trust level for a second-time hookup. He doesn’t usually get this close to scratching that real itch, disinclined to just hand out what feels like complete control of his body that easily but he’s somehow halfway there already without realizing it until now. The thought will most probably freak him out later once he’s gotten his head back on straight, but right now there’s a hand wiping at the moisture around his eyes, gritty voice telling him he _looks_ _so fucking good like this, mouth stuffed full_ and it has that same, aroused approval as the words that have been playing on repeat in Alex’s head all week. _God, so fucking filthy, you love it don’t you_ ; that tone that manages to hit all his triggers, all _use me and abuse me_ without being horribly degrading and making him feel _gross_ for days afterward and Alex is so fucking _sunk_ by it, hips jerking helplessly as he whimpers and clenches his hands tight in Jefferson’s pants and hangs on for the ride, Jefferson fucking up into his face until his jaw is blissfully sore, until he can feel the sticky, soaked cling of his underwear on his own cock, until he's shaky and whining and desperate for his own release, until he feels embarrassingly empty with the need for something filling him, until Jefferson finally jackknifes forward, both hands holding Alex down as he comes with a muffled grunt and a curse. 

Alex takes a moment of slack grip to pull back, right at the end; because Jefferson hungrily licking his aftertaste out of Alex’s mouth has been a starring moment in his showertime highlight reel and damned if he isn’t going to raise those stakes, leans up on weak, wobbly knees to mold their lips together, skating inside to hand off the last drops of come cupped in his mouth. He’s pretty fucking interested in whether Jefferson is as _into_ that as Alex suspects he might be. 

He tries not to grin, triumphant when he’s right, when strong hands grip either side of his face as Jefferson moans into his mouth and kisses him hungrily, like he’s starving and it makes him feel a little bit giddy, a bit better, knowing this filthy little insight, like it evens the playing field somewhat considering how much of himself Alex feels like he’s somehow managed to give away.

He’s not even sure which one of them it is that makes the desperate groaning noise as Jefferson sucks on his tongue and hauls Alex up on to his lap, shoves his back up against the desk edge and yanks open his pants, but it's maybe Jefferson because there's a high, keening, horribly needy noise he thinks might be coming from his own throat, and he tries not to sob with how grateful he is that Jefferson seems to be big into reciprocity, because on the rare occasions his brain has gone there, he’s always sort of thought he’d be left hanging, used and fucked out on cold wooden office flooring, but they’re looking like 0 for 2 on the high and dry front as Jefferson uses one hand to pull on his hair to tilt his head back to lick at his neck and finally _finally_ gets the other one around Alex’s dick.

“Hamilton,” Jefferson pants against his collarbone, teeth bared, “I know I say it a lot, but I’m serious. _Y_ _ou need to s_ _hut the fuck up_.”

Alex bites his lip but it doesn’t stifle his next moan - _too loud, they aren’t the only ones here_ \- as his thumb swipes over the head of Alex’s cock, smoothing the glide with his precome. Jefferson tuts in disapproval, lets go of his hair and promptly sticks two fingers into Alex’s mouth instead, the implicit instruction clear. _Suck_. Alex complies embarrassingly easily; sighs and wraps his tongue around them, feels Jefferson swallow against his neck and shift under him. 

“Shit, _shit_ ,” he says into Alex’s ear. “Always need to be doing something with your mouth if you’re not running it, don’t you.” Alex growls and bites down on his fingers, but almost immediately sobs in frustration when the hand on his dick freezes torturously. 

“Now now. I _know_ you don’t want me to stop,” Jefferson murmurs darkly, biting at his earlobe. “So you’re going to _behave_.”

Hitching a stuttering, whimpering inhale through his nose, Alex considers for a second before he slowly retracts his teeth, licks over where he’d bitten gently, apologetically, instinctively ducks forward another inch to take them in to his mouth up to the hilt.

“ _Good boy_ ,” Jefferson purrs into the skin right behind his ear and Alex can’t help how he _melts_ on his lap, shuddering against him, arching his back and thrusting into his palm, doesn’t even _care._ Jefferson swears a little wildly and shifts him impossibly closer as he goes back to fisting Alex’s dick, hard and fast and perfect and honestly, Alex had always suspected that overbearing nature extends to the bedroom, he's good at picking up these things and it’s there in that hint of a warning laced in Jefferson's tone when he’s irritated, that tenor that instinctively makes something deep in Alex want to play up even more, but _fuck_ he didn’t need it confirmed. He really didn’t need another reason to push those buttons, has enough trouble keeping himself in check without knowing that on the other side of pushing too hard is maybe a punishment he’ll probably really enjoy and it’s _that_ , just the quiet, alluring suggestion of all the filthy things this stuck-up _asshole_ of a man could do to him that has him seeing stars, biting down and coming between them.

“Huh. So that happened,” he croaks out a few minutes later, dazed and sort of redundantly once Jefferson has pulled his spit-slick fingers free and wiped them on Alex’s shirt with grimace. " _Hey_ , not my shirt-"

"Well not _my_ shirt, these things costs four hundred dollars for Christ' sake, I'm not getting your spit all over it-"

"Oh well _excuse me_ ," Alex snaps, _"Now_ you don't want my spit anywhere near you. As if you-"

A door slams further down the corridor, too-loud and too-close and Alex nearly breaks his fucking leg tripping on his pants in the effort to scramble backward off of Jefferson’s lap while also trying to shove his dick away, switching tack and praying nobody has heard any of this shit.

“-think you can just go around insulting the people you think are inferior to you, Jefferson, it’s fucking inappropriate, is what it is, that poor woman made an honest mistake and didn’t deserve-”

“Hamilton-“ Alex can hear amusement in his voice and it has him stopping, already halfway out the door, cold, quiet air of the corridor outside contrasting the overpoweringly humid smell of sex lingering in Jefferson’s office, the scent of it makes him shiver a little all over again. “-your _hair_.”

Alex catches sight of himself reflected in the darkened windows and pushes away the urge to wrinkle his nose in distaste.

“Please, this is nothing, you barely fucking touched me,” he scoffs instead, even though he looks like he’s been dragged through several bushes, and the world turns right-side-up again as the challenge flickers across Jefferson’s face, replaces that smirk with a familiar, annoyed indignation. “Besides, at least I’m not going to have to spend hours hand-washing spunk out of my four-hundred-dollar satin shirt.”

Jefferson looks down in alarm, so Alex calls it a win. 

* * *

Half an hour later Alex receives an email with no subject or text, just a single attachment that turns out to be a requisition for extra funds to be allocated to overtime for Mercer’s construction team. 

Alex signs it, marks it approved, earmarks the money to come from those two morons' investment commissions and sends it back ten minutes later in it’s own blank email, in a bastardized version of a process that normally takes anywhere from two to five days, depending on how cooperative Alex feels at the time. 

He hears Jefferson leave the office for the night twenty minutes after that.

They don’t mention that document again.

* * *

They don’t mention any of it again.

It still manages to keep happening.

_On his knees first thing in the morning, hearing people start to come into work as he chokes down a mouthful of come. Jefferson’s fist shoved in his mouth, biting down as he jacks Alex off quick and rough against his desk. Blissful peace of his brain as he focuses on the feel of his jaw stretched around that girth, the ache, the bitterness, how his voice will be hoarse for hours. Spit-slick fingertip inching barely-there into his empty hole as he comes in his pants. Filth in his ears and bruises on his neck-_

It becomes a habit, both predictable and unpredictable, potential lurking in every afternoon of raised voices and snapping words and yet boiling over so sporadically that Alex is unable to pinpoint a pattern or trigger; once because Jefferson rolls his eyes so dramatically in a board meeting that Alex marches straight from the conference room to the floor of his office, and he still can’t quite figure that one out. Once because Alex throws a hole punch at Jefferson’s head. Once because Jefferson is so grossly bougie enough to wear a bowtie to work. Once because during an argument Alex responds to his drawled _how about you jump off the roof, Hamilton_ by shouting _how about you choke on a dick_ and maybe it was a little easier to pinpoint the trigger in _that_ case because then Jefferson had said _I’d prefer it if you did_ and then of course, Alex had. 

They don’t talk about it, god forbid, beyond one ridiculous moment in which Alex had still been catching his breath, sprawled on his ass in the middle of his own office when the man frowned and said _do we need to talk about this_ and Alex had balked and recycled John's line from a lifetime ago; _don't be dumb, it's just sex,_ adding _and it's barely even that, for fuck's sake_ , at which point Jefferson had said _great_ and dragged him up by the collar and there'd been no more _talking_. 

Hell, if he could, Alex would try to tell himself that it’s someone _else_ he’s willingly sucking off every other week, almost convince himself that it’s _not_ Jefferson, so that he doesn’t have to think about how utterly stressed out he must be right now to be having this terrifying lapse in judgment. But the thrill he gets from the cracking of that shiny veneer and the utter filth that pours forth in that gritty, rough edge Jefferson's normally-honeyed drawl takes when he's horny and loose-lipped and taking control is _too_ good for that to be possible and so if he can't stop himself from _doing_ it, he can at least not verbally acknowledge the trainwreck his decision making skills have become. Somehow that would just make it more depressingly real than just getting the fuck on with it and then moving on.

If he doesn’t acknowledge it, it’s almost like it’s not even happening at all, which is how Alex likes all of his unfavorable activities; deniable.

Acknowledgement is the difference between an innocuous conversation with Washington, _Granger has some concerns, sir_ and _well Alexander, try to ease those for him_ and what is actually being said, _he's causing trouble, sir_ and _make him stop or find a way to cut him loose;_ the former defensible against any listening ears and even to their own consciences if needed. It's a language borne from what feels like eons working through the night to strategize their way out from under King, lack of sleep and exhaustion and mania dragging out a few years into a millenia but it means he understands his boss perfectly without him having to say a word.

I’m sure you can handle it, Alexander. _I know you’ll know what I want without my having to spell it out and implicate us both._

Figure it out, Alexander. _Make it happen, but for God’s sake don’t ever tell me how._

 _Talking around it_ is a skill he’s perfected under Washington but it applies so fucking well to Jefferson that he falls into it easily. 

You seem stressed, Hamilton. _You know you want to_.

Well I have a very important meeting soon. _I don’t have long._

Are you not prepared? How lax of you. _Stop wasting time then_. _  
_

Go fuck yourself-

Well, maybe he doesn’t _always_ need to talk around it.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) Yeah so, this was meant to match the length of the first, except once I'd read it through it just didn't make sense like that and now it's one long ass chapter. The next one might be a while, because half of this was technically chapter 3. Whoops.  
> b) Yes, it's a ~15k chapter with a porn/plot ratio of approximately 85% / 15% and I regret nothing, unlike Thomas, who regrets everything he ever does and yet can’t control it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My conscience: "You should maybe trim this down, cut something out, it's not all necessary."  
> My inner A.Ham: "Fuck that, give them every thought you've ever had."
> 
> The result: 18k of Thomas losing his proverbial shit. 
> 
> (Sorry. Nobody ever wins a fight with AHam.)
> 
> Have fun. Please don't judge me for the fact that I can't regulate a chapter size.

Hamilton is driving him slowly insane.

He has to be doing it on purpose, Thomas thinks, glaring across the board room at the little bastard, absentmindedly sucking on the end of his pen, lips pursed and soft and pouty; for all the world looking like he’s listening to Wilkinson drone on about whatever affiliation he wants now. He _has_ to be doing it on purpose, because the alternative - the idea that Thomas is completely-out-of-nowhere finding normal little things about Hamilton to get waylaid _staring_ at while the man goes about his day, totally innocently and oblivious to Thomas’s slow slide into insanity - is too fucking depressing for words.

This is not supposed to be happening. He’s supposed to be working _through_ this. It’s not supposed to be getting _worse_.

It had been a solid plan. The _only_ plan, really, when he’d realized he wasn’t going to be able to shake than damnable image; Hamilton’s head tipped back against the wall in pleasure, face dazed and wanting and flushed, that noise he’d made when he’d come-

Thomas had _tried_. He had.

Well, maybe not right away. Maybe not later that night in his own bed, hand moving furiously on himself and enough alcohol in his system that he’d had no qualms about putting himself in place of the stranger, fucking his fist and thinking of that one suggestion of James’s to _fuck him mute_ ringing horribly and persistently in his ears now that he knew a little better how Hamilton would want it, what he’d look like if Thomas maybe _did_ , how Thomas would be able to give it to him just right, how he’d not have to tell Thomas _harder_ -

Okay so he’d not tried very hard at first.

But after, afterward he’d tried. He’d pushed it away and pushed it away, again and again for the rest of the weekend, up into the following week, resolutely didn’t let his mind go anywhere near the _irritation_ down the hall besides the barest minimum to have to deal with the bullshit the guy kept throwing at him, hoping and praying that he’d come out of the whole situation with nothing but an uncomfortably intense masturbation session and a healthy respect for boundaries except-

Except then he’d seen Hamilton. He’d _seen_ Hamilton for the first time since that night and the little shit had been annoying and mouthy and _waving his fucking legs around_ like Thomas had needed _that_ stimulus and every time he’d said _fuck_ Thomas couldn’t help replaying that damn scene over again in dim-lit technicolor. He’d only wanted to make Hamilton _shut up_ for a second, just for a single second so that Thomas could get a hold of himself and breathe without _thinking about it_ except as soon as he’d hit the wall Hamilton had melted; soft and pliant under his hands and his eyes had gone wide and dark and interested and Thomas hadn’t quite considered that Hamilton might actually _want_ -

Well. It had escalated a little after that.

He can’t be blamed, really. He’d defy anyone else to act any differently.

And so he’d thought if he maybe leaned into it for a while, gave in to those niggling, annoying urges that seemed to now be pressing at the forefront of his mind instead of just popping up at infrequent - if inopportune - moments, if he just fucking _did it,_ maybe they’d stop. Surely eventually once the novelty wore away, so would those persistent, intrusive thoughts that kept coming out of nowhere and throwing him off his stride. He’d work through this _distraction_ until it passed, leaving him with a clear mind, a renewed productivity and a potential leg-up on his professional nemesis, so to speak.

It was a solid plan.

Except it's been nearly two months and that hasn’t happened yet. Instead he’s somehow reduced himself to spending an entire board meeting staring at Alexander goddamn Hamilton fellating a fucking fountain pen.

So he _has_ to be doing it on purpose, otherwise Thomas is in _trouble_.

Because his distraction is becoming a _problem_.

Every time Hamilton pours himself a coffee in the staff lounge and makes that same happy, _satisfied_ noise as when he sinks his hot little mouth down on Thomas. Every time he gets carried away writing too many notes in a meeting, scribbling across his page, tongue sticking out and curled, pink and wet, like when he wraps it around Thomas’s dick and dips that pointy end into the slit. Every time he bites his lip, lost in thought, like that one time Thomas had made him kneel and wait, just to see if he’d ask for it and he’d bitten his bottom lip almost red raw in his anticipation because he _won’t_ , even though he so clearly _wants_. Every time a few strands of dark hair fall loose and free in his face and he huffs and glares distractedly up at it in that same way as when he’s on his knees, palms obediently on his thighs, waiting for Thomas to get it out of his way - _and Thomas’s fingers definitely don’t twitch to do it_ \- because when they do their thing Hamilton’s hair has become Thomas’s to play with as he pleases-

Thomas is starting to think it might _not_ pass, in which case this might all be his own damn fault for opening the floodgates in the first place.

No. Hamilton _has_ to be doing this on purpose. Thomas doesn’t doubt that he’s conniving enough that he’d use any distraction of Thomas’s to his advantage if he could, especially if he’s benefiting from it as well.

And he is.

Thomas can at least attest to that.

Hamilton takes that moment to slide the pen out of his mouth to scrawl out a few messy notes. Thomas narrows his eyes - from across the room in the middle of an emphatic presentation there’s no way it _actually_ makes a noise but Thomas’s brain still helpfully manages to supplement the action with a sloppy-wet sound he’s heard more than a few times now - and he looks resolutely back to the front of the room, glares unseeing at the screen until the lights flicker back on.

Thankfully for Thomas’s nerves Wilkinson finishes his presentation five minutes later with little fanfare, looks around the room expectantly. Thomas tries to sink into his seat without slouching - he was raised properly, after all - until a few comments catch him up with what the man’s entire proposal had been. He wants them to trial running a prominent newspaper. _Right_. Well, it has fuck all to do with Thomas, at least. He looks around, trying to gauge interest and see which side it’s going to be more strategic for him to come down on. Fifty-fifty split, opinion wise. James is looking considerate, lips pursed, probably wondering if he can sway this around to them _buying_ the newspaper outright; more his business then than Wilkinson’s. Adams _hates_ the idea but is trying not to shit all over the kid. Hamilton-

Hamilton has his head slung over the back of his chair in boredom as they all discuss the suggestion, long line of his neck on display, five-o-clock shadow setting in under the line of barely-there trimmed stubble, throat moving as he swallows around a long sigh and Thomas blinks, derailed completely.

Again.

Over the grumbling he hears Adams cough pointedly. “Do we know what the financial ramifications of this would be? Hamilton? Any input?”

Thomas winces. He’s just gone back through the presentation pamphlet in front of him and caught sight of the almost-extortionate amount the kid has proposed. He throws a sympathetic look at Wilkinson as Hamilton rolls his eyes and stretches his arms up lazily, back arching a little like a cat.

“Hmm?”

“ _Do you forsee issues with Wilkinson’s proposal_ ,” Washington sighs. Hamilton’s face is blankly pleasant and he’s suspiciously succinct.

“ _Oh_. No. I like the idea.” 

Beside Thomas, Angelica bursts into awkward coughs that sound far too much like laughs for his liking. Washington raises an eyebrow.

“Alexander, were you even listening?” 

Hamilton scowls at their CEO in a way that would earn _Thomas_ a reproving glare if he'd ever dare. Which he wouldn't. For Hamilton, of course, nothing of the sort. “Of course. He wants to edit the Post. I think it’s a great idea.”

“And the money he wants to expend to do so? That’s appropriate, you think?” Adams pushes. Hamilton frowns.

“Are you trying to find problems with his proposal?” he asks, obtuse and uncooperative. “If you don’t like it, you should just say that yourself instead of trying to use me like a human veto.” Adams huffs and backtracks now that it’s obvious he’s mostly alone in his distaste for the idea.

“Don’t be dramatic, Hamilton. I was merely asking. I think it’s a fine suggestion-”

“Then I apologize, Director Adams, for misconstruing," he waves a hand in the air, not sounding sorry at all. “At any rate, I think so too. If budget is the only issue then it’s not a problem. We’ve already spoken. I told him he could have it.”

He smiles and nods at Wilkinson, who smiles back, face lighting up at the positive noises now coming from the hesitant half of the room because if Hamilton has already agreed, if finance is already on board, the battle is almost won anyway, or at least not worth coming up with any worthwhile argument against. Thomas _hates_ how much sway Hamilton has over all these damn decisions, and he hates that he feels like this meeting has been entirely for show, because Hamilton and Wilkinson have already decided this is happening and so there was no reason for him to have spent the last forty minutes entertaining this _d_ _istraction_ when he could have been in his office pretending it didn’t exist.

“You _what_?”

Thomas doesn’t even realize he’s spoken until everyone turns to look at him. Hamilton raises an interested eyebrow.

“Oh, morning Jefferson. Nice of you to wake up and join us-”

“Did you just say you _told him he could have it._ ”

Hamilton’s lips twitch, eyes alight. Thomas wants to punch him straight in his stupid, smug face. He looks too happy. Nothing good comes of Hamilton looking _that_ happy.

“I did. Honestly, first Adams and now you, taking _such_ an interest in what I have to say all of a sudden, normally you’re all for telling me to shut the fu-”

“Alexander-”

“-dge up. I don’t quite understand why you all think I’d just sit here and _wait_ to tell him if I thought his idea was a financial pile of shit. I let him speak didn’t I? Ergo, I don’t think it’s shit. Do you think it’s shit, Jefferson?”

Thomas grinds his teeth together over the sound of Washington’s exasperated _Alexander, for the love of god, stop saying shit._

Wilkinson frowns over at Thomas, because he’s sort of taken the kid under his wing and so he’s probably expected to be supportive here, and to be honest, he doesn’t think it’s shit. He doesn’t _give_ a shit. He doesn’t care _what_ Wilkinson does, but he’s so fucking _angry_ that Hamilton’s essentially just handed the guy a blank check when he fights Thomas tooth and nail on the price of a damn car hire, for fuck’s sake, and he’s done this on purpose. He’s done this on purpose just to fuck with Thomas, just like everything else, just like how he keeps licking his lips because there’s no way they can be _that fucking dry_ -

“Of course not. I’m just surprised you managed to pull your head our of your own ass for long enough to approve someone a reasonable budget for once," Thomas snaps. Hamilton’s eyes flash and he hears someone further down the room sigh. Angelica kicks his leg under the table with a delicate stiletto and mutters _for god's sake, this isn't even anything to do with you two._

“Well, there’s something to be said for an idea with _merit_ , Jefferson,” Hamilton says snidely and Thomas tenses for a fight. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Burr roll his shoulders and settle back into his chair. “Maybe if-”

“Well if that’s all the discussion to be had on _that_ topic,” Washington interrupts smoothly, miraculously redirecting Hamilton with a precision that must only come with experience or some level of authority that Hamilton _actually_ respects. “Alexander, I believe you had something to say about some stocks?”

Hamilton blinks a few times, recalibrating, before he’s _off_ , going a mile-a-minute suddenly about stocks in some renewable energy company he wants them to invest in. They get into a fight eventually anyway - because of course they do, Thomas is too pissed off not to engage with him about _something_ , even though he doesn’t give a fuck about the stocks and has to think on his feet, settle for stubborn and mulish which he can admit he’s not as well versed at as Hamilton. Thomas does better in a fight with actual, solid ammunition. Still, they end up all but hissing over the table _you’re clearly incapable of grasping the up sell of this_ and _whatever your idiotic reasoning, the risks of losing that much money are absolutely not worth it, Hamilton_ and _if you can’t even explain my own reasons back to me then you’ve not understood them and you don’t get a fucking vote, Jefferson_ until Washington calls a ceasefire and makes Thomas sit down and let Hamilton finish his presentation. 

Thomas sits and seethes and tries in vain to calm his mind, tries to find that quiet satisfaction he’s had lately; because admittedly, no-one getting their dick sucked on such a regular basis has room to be anything other than moderately tempered most days, and while it hasn’t helped with his distraction, it has certainly helped his temper, helped him combat that barrage of _Hamilton_ thrown at him on a daily basis, knowing that no-matter how much venom is directed his way that, within the hour if he _really_ wants, he could have Hamilton on his knees moaning for Thomas’s cock halfway down his throat. That usually makes it far easier to sit and argue with him like speaking to a small child, slow and condescending, just like he _hates_ , watching him get more and more irate while Thomas just sits back with a smile. 

On this occasion, however, it doesn’t work. Thomas burns with his annoyance, his anger at the gall, the sheer _cheek_ that Hamilton has; to be giving away money to Wilkinson like it’s easy to come by even though he spends half his working week telling Thomas loudly and specifically and _really fucking detailedly_ how it isn’t. He’s just said _yeah okay,_ like that cash is as easy to nail down as his needy little ass, all the while telling Thomas _no_ , to everything. Ever.

Thomas glares the entire time Hamilton bombards his captive audience into submission, overwhelming them with facts and numbers until nearly everyone in the fucking room agrees with him out of sheer, unadulterated _exhaustion_ , until he gets his way, until Washington sits there and nods _well, if that’s the general consensus, you have a go, Alexander_ and once they’re all excused Thomas ends up slamming out of the board room so fucking furious he has to do three laps of the entire building before he can breathe calmly enough to go back up to their floor.

He doesn’t _decide_ , per se, to end up in Hamilton’s office, but he realizes and acknowledges it as a sad inevitability when his feet take him straight past his own and down the corridor. Hamilton’s assistant shoots him a narrow-eyed glare as he approaches - _that kid is getting far too like his boss_ \- and objects almost immediately.

“Director Hamilton has a meeting soon. I really don’t think it’s a good time to be-”

“How long until his meeting?” Thomas grits out.

“Er.” Lucas looks at the time on his computer. “Twenty minutes, but-”

“Long enough.” Thomas mutters and waves off the harried, fussy noise the kid makes as he barges his way in to Hamilton’s office and shuts the door behind him, flicking the lock.

He’s not at his desk, Thomas notes confusedly, before he catches up and sees Hamilton in the middle of the room, document in hand, clearly mid-pace, though he breaks into the most _malevolent_ grin at the sight of Thomas. He wonders how truly angry he must look and feels it flare in his gut again under the knowledge that Hamilton can _absolutely_ tell how much he’s pissed Thomas off. 

“ _Jefferson_. To what do I owe the pleas-”

“Did you approve that ridiculous amount just to _fuck with me_ you petty little bastard?” Thomas snaps stiffly. Hamilton blinks for a second before his lips twitch and he chokes off a laugh that makes Thomas want to gut him a bit.

“Jesus fucking- _no_. Not _everything_ is about you, Jefferson.” He breaks off to chuckle in disbelief and Thomas’s fingers twitch. “Holy _shit_ I know you think the world revolves around you, but _fuck me_ that’s a new level of self-importance. Not everything I do is designed to fuck with yo-”

It’s too close. It’s too close to Thomas’s growing concerns and Hamilton _has_ to be doing it on purpose, this casual erosion of Thomas’s concentration and his sanity, and he can’t stand there and hear him imply otherwise, not right now, now while he's _this_ annoyed and can't work through it rationally. He has Hamilton by the collar and shoved face-first against the nearest wall before he can finish the sentence, his bark of delighted, mocking laughter at Thomas losing his temper cut short as Thomas presses himself up against his back, another heat flaring in his gut, his body almost Pavlovian now at the increasingly-familiar feel of frustration coupled with Hamilton warm under his hands. 

“Alright?” Thomas mutters and relaxes when he nods, once, because as they’ve been doing this he’s only become more and more aware of how fucking _small_ Hamilton is, really, like the fact that he has enough fight in him for three grown men masked that delicacy until Thomas had laid his hands on him and felt it for himself but now that he has he can’t help but be cautious when he knocks him around, nomatter how much Hamilton seems to like it as much as Thomas does. Sometimes he considers proposing a safeword, even though they’re barely scratching the surface, because although Thomas absently imagines wringing his damn neck on an almost daily basis, he’s never wanted to _actually_ hurt someone, even _this_ asshole, and so it’s an appealing notion except for how he thinks Hamilton might laugh at him if he did, like it would mean anything beyond Thomas wanting to know he’s not causing genuine harm because he can’t get a fucking read on the guy otherwise.

“For your information - I _want_ him to run the _Post_ , Jefferson.” Hamilton snorts against the wood paneled wall. Thomas can hear the grin still in his voice, buries a hand in his hair and pulls until he sounds less smug, just because he can, until his next words come out around a sigh and a moan. “He’s going - _fuck, oh_ \- to let me write for it-”

“Of course you want another damn platform to spout from,” Thomas mutters, can't help grinding his hips forward enough to make Hamilton gasp, and it’s the sound of it as much as the pressure on his dick that fuels the fire in his belly when he prompts; “ _Hands_. You don’t have _time_ to write for a newspaper-"

“I’ll _make_ time.” Hamilton shoots back, dismissive, like that’s the easiest answer in the world. He crosses his wrists obediently behind his back between them and Thomas marvels at the contrast, how dutifully he complies with what Thomas wants now compared with half an hour ago in the meeting. Compared to this morning, when he’d proposed a new project budget and gotten an emphatic _no_ that began with _if only it was possible for one to buy themselves a brain._ Compared to _yesterday_ , when they’d been arguing over a new contract and he’d yelled _I will put my fucking foot up your ass if you try and tell me what to do one more fucking time, I swear to god-_

It’s curious and juxtaposing, how obliging Hamilton is under the knowledge that he’ll be getting a reward for behaving. It’s reluctantly pretty fucking hot that that reward is having Thomas mess him up and use him. It’s nothing but completely, utterly gratifying that, in spite of the ever-present attitude, he’ll ultimately do what Thomas wants, at least in this, and _fuck_ if that isn’t one of the main reasons Thomas keeps coming back. He can’t say _no_ to the satisfaction of that careful, controlled discipline he likes to exercise over the rest of his life finally encompassing at least a _fraction_ of Hamilton, that permanent headache curbed just a little, knowing at least _here_ he’ll willingly yield.

He bites Hamilton’s earlobe, hard, relishes the hitched breath and the flinch. 

“You gave him _whatever he wanted_. All that money. Without argument.” Thomas isn’t bitter. He’s just pointing out the hypocrisy. “Tell me you didn’t do that on purpose to piss me off. Tell me you’re not that _stupid_.”

Hamilton snorts again but it sounds weak as he pushes back, rubs himself up against Thomas's front even as he speaks, his scathing tone wavering.

“I’m _not_ stupid. I’m not about to compromise us financially just to get on your fucking nerves,” he scoffs, uneven. “I don’t _need_ to, obviousl-” 

“Oh shut _up_ ,” Thomas claps a hand over his mouth, has had just about _enough_ , wants him taken down a peg, shaking and whimpering and covered in his own-

He shoves his other hand roughly between Hamilton and the wall, palms where he’s hard in his cheap suit pants before he stills it, keeps it firm. “Alright, if you're going to be like _that_ , you shit, here’s your choice," he whispers into Hamilton's ear. "You can rub off against my hand right now, or you can forget it. It doesn't matter one bit to me. We both know where _I'll_ be finishing, and _apparently_ you don't have long."

He holds his breath. This is stupid of him, really, and he half-curses that Hamilton’s reduced him to this recklessness but he wants to _know_ , wants him to do it just to see if he will, just because Thomas has said so. Realistically there’s no way Hamilton should go for it. There’s at least half a day left to work through and nobody needs to do that in spunk-sticky underwear, itchy and stiff as it dries. Thomas doesn’t even trust himself to hold to it, if Hamilton dared ask pretty enough, knows he’s a sucker for being begged, would probably crumble anyway. If he doesn’t want to resort to that - because god forbid Hamilton _ask_ for what he wants - he’s pretty sure the guy is shameless enough to see to himself in the quiet of his office once he’s alone. The choices Thomas has given him aren’t his only options and yet this is the game they’re playing, so Thomas holds his breath for the long seconds it takes for the decision to be made, for Hamilton to eventually make a quiet, unholy noise into the hand covering his mouth and begin to rut against Thomas’s palm in earnest. 

Thomas groans roughly, open mouthed against the back of his neck, presses tighter into him; _fuck, fuck yes, that’s it, doll. You gonna make yourself come like that because I told you to, huh?_ Hamilton makes this lovely, pleading little noise and snaps his hips harder, faster, rolls them into Thomas’s hand like he’s being paid for it and Thomas rewards him by replacing the hand covering his mouth with his fingers shoved in instead. He sucks at them instantly with a soft sound of gratitude that goes straight to Thomas’s strangled cock. He doesn’t know if Hamilton really realizes just how much of an oral fixation he has - that he shivers and moans for something in there every damn time, that he punctuates most of his orgasms with a bite, whether it be his lip or Thomas’s fingers - but it’s something Thomas is becoming reluctantly partial to, even if it does mean that he has little bruises along the meat of his fingers, dark lines where Hamilton’s teeth have been that Thomas can’t help but look at all goddamn day, hands at his keyboard and it’s no fucking wonder he can’t get any damn work done.

Hamilton starts to shake in Thomas’s grip as he talks him through it, puts his lips to the curve of his ear, red and overheated against his mouth and feeds him a line of filth that has him whimpering as he pushes his fingers deeper, all _so keen for it, aren’t you, go on, show me_ and _I’m going to get my cock so far down your throat you’ll taste me for days, Jesus, Hamilton_ until he shudders and bites down hard and comes with a high, tinny-sounding sob that makes Thomas’s insides squirm with need. 

It takes barely a few minutes of hot, wet, glorious suction, a few swallows around the head of him - after Hamilton has gotten his shit together and dropped to the floor, both of them scrambling to get Thomas's dick in his mouth - for Thomas to lose it, one hand holding himself up against the wall, the other tangled tight in long dark hair as he comes, satisfied grunt making way for heavy breathing until Hamilton pulls off and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, blinking and gasping for breath.

Thomas's hand twitches as he detaches from his head, but he doesn’t offer it to help Hamilton up. That would suddenly constitute too much touching now that they’ve drawn the line of being _done_. Instead, Hamilton stands slowly and leans back against the wall for support as he stretches and fixes his hair and makes a satisfied noise that becomes a disgruntled whine and a wrinkled nose as he shifts, uncomfortable at what Thomas presumes is the feel of come slowly seeping through his boxer shorts. Thomas snorts, that burning annoyance finally dissipating, as it always does after they do this, finally feeling a little more in control of the situation. Hamilton might have thrown him off with Wilkinson's stupid budget but _Thomas_ isn't the one who'll be sitting in his own spunk for the rest of the afternoon and the thought makes that hostile space between them entirely more balanced again. 

For a precious, _precious_ minute, that is, until Hamilton rolls his head back against the wall and looks up at Thomas, lips twitching and eyes still bright and opens that damn mouth again, voice patchy.

"By the way, if it makes you feel better, Jefferson, I didn't _want_ to give him that much. It's fucking obscene, really. I'd ordinarily have tried to argue him down at least a hundred thousand-" he smiles, a truly lazy, self-satisfied, shit-eating grin that makes Thomas's stomach drop. "-but that was what we negotiated when he agreed to sign off on my consolidation plan yesterday, so needs must, I suppose."

Thomas almost wants to slap himself. _Of course he had_. He curses himself stupid. This was what he'd meant. He wasn't a fucking idiot, nor typically this slow. He'd surely have put those pieces together long before now had Hamilton not been _sucking on that goddamn pen_. 

"That weak little bastard," he growls. "Of course he did."

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Hamilton smirks. “Smart choice, getting on board while there’s something he wants. Savvy, really. You should be proud.”

Thomas isn’t.

“What a waste of your bargaining chips,” he says instead. “You’ll regret that when it comes to nothing.”

“I’m in awe of how far in denial you are, Jefferson,” Hamilton snorts, and he looks so fucking sure of himself that Thomas wants to wreck him all over again just to prove that he isn’t. “You may as well get used to the idea. It’s inevitable.”

“Nothing’s _inevitable_ , Hamilton,” Thomas retorts.

They’re still stood a little too close, Thomas notes, because when Hamilton rolls his eyes Thomas is struck with the utterly insane urge to wipe the smirk off of his face with his own mouth, and he realizes that he probably still _could_ with very little effort. It only occurs to him as an option because it’s either that or possibly hit him, and kissing him would surely work in throwing him off his game more than swinging for him, at least, but if helping him up is too much touching then trying to tongue him now is so far past the line it’s not even funny-

There’s a loud _bang_ from outside Hamilton's office and he hears Lucas apologize _oh shoot, sorry, Mister Madison, I'm so clumsy, did I drop that on your foot_ and suddenly Hamilton has retreated out of his space, out to a reasonable distance and beyond, backing right up behind his desk and Thomas moves over to flick the lock, just as there’s a knock and James sticks his head around the door to come face to face with Thomas.

And of course it has to be James, because that’s the kind of luck Thomas is having lately. Of course it has to be the one person who can read him like a book, because only James would really be able to look at Thomas and then over to where Hamilton looks disinterestedly over at them, a bit rumpled and mouth still a little plumped but ultimately reasonably put together considering where he'd been ten minutes ago and raise an eyebrow that tells Thomas he’s in for a _conversation_.

"Is this a bad time? I wouldn't want-"

"-Nope, not at all. You're right on time, James. Jefferson was just leaving." Hamilton says smoothly, glancing up at Thomas and glaring like they'd just had a monumental fight instead of incredibly satisfying mutual orgasms. Thomas makes an approximation of an agreeing angry noise and resolutely doesn’t make eye contact as he slips out of the door. 

* * *

_[Jem] -_ How long are you going to keep this up for  
 _[T.J] -_ What on god’s green earth are you talking about  
[ _[Jem] -_ Don’t you dare  
 _[T.J] -_ What?  
[ _[Jem] -_ I left a message with Ben  
 _[Jem] -_ There’s no way you’ve been out of your office for the last three hours  
 _[T.J] -_ I’m very busy today, Jem  
 _[Jem] -_ Due a lunch break soon surely then  
 _[T.J] -_ Got a 12:15 meeting with Kevin  
 _[Jem] -_ We can grab tea afterward  
 _[T.J] -_ Got a conference call, sorry  
 _[Jem] -_ Fine then, let’s have dinner tonight. I’ll cook, Dolley’s out  
 _[T.J] -_ Having dinner with Gilbert tonight, maybe another time?  
 _[Jem] -_ This isn’t cute, Thomas

* * *

He manages to avoid James for four whole days in the hopes he'll let it go, which he’s actually pretty impressed with considering their offices are within spitting distance of each other and he lives not ten minutes from Thomas’s penthouse. He’s not ashamed to admit that he mostly does it by keeping his door locked while he’s alone, checking their communal calendar to be able to schedule himself for when James is most likely to be free and arriving to things plenty early enough to get dragged into riveting conversation with other people so that he can’t be accosted and interrupted while they’re waiting for meetings to start. 

It’s on one of these occasions, Thomas in the conference room too early and helping himself to shitty, watery coffee and eyeing the marginally better donuts trying to decide whether he deserves one, that he’s greeted by John Adams with a slap to the shoulder and a jovial _well done on getting that facility of Lee’s back on track, Jefferson, good work._ Thomas has to bite down on the brittle response, because he’s still stinging at being backed into that proverbial corner and he’s sort of looking forward to the end of the project and the day that the man learns he’ll be personally paying for that catch up. Thomas would almost feel guilty about Hamilton having to be the one to deliver that bad news but the little demon had looked so gleeful at the prospect of causing that trouble that Thomas had happily left him to it.

If Thomas gets to get a little payback and _not_ get his hands dirty, why not let him have his fun.

It’s almost as rewarding as their other mutually beneficial arrangement. If only it could happen more often.

He doesn’t really pay much attention until Adams says _I really owe you one_ and the prospect grabs his attention immediately. He tries not to reflexively look up at James a few feet away, helping himself to his own coffee, just in case it brings him towards the conversation, and in case his sudden excitement shows on his face as he pretends to consider.

“Well now, John, have you placed your premises vote yet? You could always throw in for D.C if you haven’t,” Thomas says, politely, like he doesn’t know damn well that Adams is a holdout. 

This is an _excruciating_ , ongoing fight; where to set up a shiny new head office.

The building they’re currently in is a temporary stopgap at best; never intended to be a permanent headquarters and they’ve been fighting on and off for the past year over where to finally make that home. Thomas and James are lobbying _hard_ for a return to D.C; it’s where King’s conglomerate was originally headed, where Thomas had actually first started working for the company and _tantalizingly_ close to home, though it had quickly become clear on his return that most of the arms of the franchise had been pillaged and dismantled and sold off in the hostilities, Washington backed into a corner in the New York branch until the tides had turned and he’d finally begun making some headway. At first when they’d been struggling and recovering, staying there hadn’t even been a question but now they’re growing, now they’re thriving - now they _deserve_ an upgrade - the topic has made it’s way onto almost every single agenda and yet they’re no closer to a decision.

Their three shareholders and Washington had failed to commit to a choice and passed it to them to vote on, but that hadn't helped either; they’ve still not managed to come to an agreement and it’s been in limbo for a good few months now, nobody willing to shift or recast their votes. Thomas knows damn well Adams has abstained, doesn’t want to choose and set himself against either Washington or those shareholders that opposed him, _securing his future leadership position indeed,_ a politician until the end, but if he’s going to throw around the word _favor_ , then Thomas is sure as hell going to at least _ask_. 

“Well now, isn’t _that_ a suggestion,” Adams smiles and Thomas’s heart drops, because that’s a _no_ if he ever heard one, even before he finishes. “Not sure it’s the smartest move to pit myself against Hamilton _and_ Schuyler at the same time, Thomas.”

He couches it like he’s kidding, but it’s betrayed by the way he lowers his voice as Angelica files in past them and he’s serious, as much as he doesn’t want to come out against his CEO, because Hamilton and Angelica are a _force_ , championing for staying in New York with Laurens backing them up and Thomas would have gladly liked to be able to make some headway in opposing them. 

“Worth a try,” he says graciously. “Can’t blame a guy for asking.”

“Indeed I can’t,” Adams agrees amicably and takes a step closer, offers at least a little information in consolation. “Though you might have better luck with whoever it is that George appoints as Richard’s replacement, if you can get in there before Hamilton gets his claws in, that is. He’s pushing for that Robins guy down-”

He breaks off as Washington comes in, nods at Thomas like he’s passed on something that isn’t well known and at least this hasn’t been a _complete_ bust. Thomas files it away for further investigation, just as Hamilton trails in behind his boss, takeout coffee in one hand, phone in the other, typing furiously, large chunky notebook and pen gripped between his teeth. There’s a smug joke to be made somewhere in there about the impressive size of the things Hamilton can fit into that mouth of his, because it’s really not actually all _that_ big considering how much shit he talks, but nobody he could make it to, and so in lieu of that jibe Thomas swipes the last pastry on the tray by the door as Hamilton eyes it and steadfastly ignores the way he can almost feel James’s flat look from across the room. 

“ _Fuck’s sake_ , Jefferson,” Hamilton snaps, depositing his things on the table. “Don’t be an asshole, I’m fucking starving.”

Thomas abruptly remembers that he hadn’t seen Hamilton out on the fountain wall yesterday, that he hadn’t eaten lunch with Burr and Laurens. Not that Thomas had _looked_ , his office windows just overlook their usual spot and he’d happened to see, is all, happened to notice Hamilton’s absence and had he even eaten lunch at all then? When _had_ he eaten?

He feels annoyance flare, both with himself for the surge of ridiculous guilt and at Hamilton for _causing_ it just because he can’t take care of himself like a grown ass man-

“Not my problem,” Thomas says primly, because it isn’t, and because he can’t very well hand it over _now_ , even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t.

Hamilton pouts for a second before suddenly sidling a little too-close into his space and it’s definitely _that_ , the confusion at having him close enough to touch in a public setting rather than anything to do with the damn _pout_ that throws Thomas off so much that his reaction are too slow when Hamilton snatches the damn thing right from his hand and shoves half of it into his mouth at once because he’s fucking _outrageous_. 

Thomas blinks at him, appalled as they take their seats.

“Don’t give me that look,” Hamilton mumbles around his mouthful. “There’s no fuckin’ way you eat carbs anyway.”

“You are absolutely unbelievable.” 

Hamilton winks and grins _thanks_ at him as he stuffs his face with the other half of the pastry, the smug little-

“Not a fucking compliment, Hamilton. You’re disgusting.”

“Semantics.” Hamilton shrugs and flips open his notebook, summarily dismissive as they start, clearly completely _done_ with Thomas now that he’s gotten what he wanted and yet Thomas, for his part, spends two thirds of the following meeting paying no fucking attention at all. He can’t stop glaring at the flaky remains left around Hamilton’s mouth, wants to tell him to wipe them away but doesn’t want it to come off like he’s actually _looking_ , rather than what he _is_ doing, which is judging his colleague for not being able to eat like a damn adult. He’s so pissed off about it that four hours later when Hamilton’s half-under his desk, thankfully pastry free even though Thomas can still fucking picture it, he drags the guy’s head off of him and comes all over his mouth instead, watches him lick it away and willfully refrains from pointing out that _he’s clearly capable of cleaning himself up so why the fuck can’t he do Thomas a favor and do that in public next time._

* * *

James finally corners him two days after that.

Well, not so much corners him as interrupts Thomas about to gag Hamilton with his own tie and get him face down over his lap because he’s being especially mouthy, all _well I would agree with you, Jefferson, except then we’d both be wrong_ and _Jesus fucking Christ you’re about as useful as the ‘g’ in lasagna this morning aren’t you_ which is really irritating to have interrupted, actually, because what has been an intrusive, mostly problematic image for the past year is now a legitimate possibility and so he’d decided that if he was going to be weak and give in to himself again then he may as well see what that reality _looks_ like and now he’s not going to be able to picture it to feel superior the next time Hamilton pops off at him.

Luckily it’s not as close as the last time, because James’s knock is prefaced by an odd, sudden, loud smashing noise and then enough of a lapse that Hamilton is already moving to unlock and open the door and make himself scarce before James even comes in, eyes narrowed as he sits and flicks a look between Thomas and the closing door.

There’s a lingering, unsettled feeling in Thomas’s stomach as Hamilton leaves that he thinks is probably due to not being able to appropriately quell the fit of frustration that had driven him to yank the guy out of the chair and around his desk in the first place, and he’s also maybe just a tad uneasy, watching Hamilton wander out of his office looking like _that_ , all obviously glassy-eyed and dazed and flushed, out where fucking _anyone_ could see him-

Thomas just doesn’t want anyone to start asking questions, is all.

“Alright that’s it,” James huffs. “I’ve given it the week and I’m starting to get offended now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Thomas says blankly, begs with his eyes and prays that they can just _not_ do this, because he’s had four days to desperately try and come up with the world’s most elaborate lie but still hasn’t got anything, and he’d really much rather have let this run it’s course never having had it acknowledged by anyone at all. Hell, even he and Hamilton aren’t acknowledging it outside of it actually _happening_ , that silent but mutual, shameful agreement is almost legally binding at this point. 

“You and Hamilton,” James says, exasperated, and _fuck_. “I’ve only being telling you for what feels like forever, so I don’t know why you wouldn’t tell me that you two are-“

“Nothing,” Thomas says firmly, because it’s true and dammit, _fine_. He’s going to have to clear this up because whatever James is thinking is clearly far worse than the reality. James scoffs. “It’s nothing. Just working out some tension, is all.”

“ _...working out some tension,_ ” James repeats slowly, slightly disbelieving, like Thomas has told him he’s quitting his job to fulfill his new lifelong dream of becoming a trucker and that’s not exactly fair, Thomas has definitely been considerably _less_ tense over the last month, and although he hates to attribute any of that remotely to _Hamilton_ , he can’t deny that there’s something to be said for alleviating some of that stress in the middle of his working day-

“Please tell me you’re not actually doing this at _work_ , regularly,” James interrupts, aghast, when Thomas tries to explain this. He shifts a little and shoots a horrified, suspicious look down at the chair he’s sitting in.

“ _Obviously_ ,” Thomas frowns at him, because where the fuck else would it be happening. “What, I’m meant to invite him round to my apartment like it’s a premeditated _thing_?”

“Isn’t it?” James asks, bewildered.

“Christ no, it just _happens_ sometimes.”

“Jesus, Thomas,” James says, blinks a little, stares blankly. “For someone so damn smart you’re capable of being _impressively_ dense.”

“Well _that’s_ rude,” Thomas says, a little offended, and tells James so, because _yes_ , he gets it, Alexander Hamilton is a fucking disaster of a human being and Thomas is well aware of how fucking humiliating it is that he can’t seem to go a week without itching for his open mouth. He doesn’t feel great about himself for it but he’s not an idiot; _James_ is the one who’s come in here asking questions, Thomas had been quite happy to keep his mouth shut and hope nobody would be any the wiser when it eventually stopped, because it’s _just sex_ , because he’s just taking what’s good while it comes-

“You don’t need to explain yourself. I understand _exactly_ what you’re doing,” James says flatly, though his tone suggests to Thomas that he maybe _doesn’t_. “Please stop talking. Thomas, you’re shit at _just sex._ What in the _hell_ makes you think-”

“Because it’s _Hamilton_ ,” Thomas replies, incredulous, because he’s _wrong_ anyway. “Because he’s a fucking four-car-pile-up of a man who probably buys his dress shirts from Wal-Mart along with his weekly groceries. Because he talks like a sewer rat and thinks he runs this entire goddamn company just because _daddy’s_ given him the purse strings. Because he’s a fucking _nightmare_ , James, seriously, Christ. Can we just not talk about it anymore _please_ , I feel like I want to boil myself clean sometimes as it is, don’t make me think about it anymore.”

James looks at him for a very long time before he sighs deeply, pinches the bridge of his nose and says _okay, fine, if that’s what you want_ and it definitely fucking _is_ so Thomas grabs the opportunity to distract him with both hands, tells him about the conversation with Adams, tells him about the meeting he has with Angelica and how that will hopefully benefit James, tells him;

“Wilkinson agreed to sign his damn consolidation plan, by the way,” and Hamilton is still so present in their conversation that Thomas doesn’t even think to extrapolate to whom he’s referring to. 

“I’d assumed as much,” James nods, and Thomas tries not to bristle, doesn’t mention that _he’d_ needed it spelled out for him. “Honestly, I wonder whether it’s worth us starting to put together a list of things we could barga-”

“ _No_.” Thomas grits out, firm. “I’m _not_ giving in to him. He’s not playing at being a bleeding heart just to get away with being a lazy little shit-”

It’s not that Thomas doesn’t understand the streamlining Hamilton’s trying to accomplish; how much more efficiently his department might function. It’s that Thomas doesn’t really _care_ about Hamilton’s department, as long as it _does_ function, because it can't be _that bad._ It’s that Thomas is morally opposed to freeloading, and that’s all it would be at it’s heart, if they implemented his plan and allowed those small, more unsuccessful little stragglers to leech from the profitable ones like parasites. It’s that Mercer and Redfield are Thomas’s shining stars right now, the progenitors of those projects that are going to bring them the revenue, the attention, the interest. _They’re_ the ones they should _all_ be focusing on, the ones they should be riding up the scale of corporate respect and he’s damn well not going to ruin that, pissing those guys off and impeding their trajectory by signing off on a scheme that will have their considerable profits spread thin without cause, just so that Alexander Hamilton can do _less_ work. Hamilton hardly seems to give a fuck about his own workload most of the time anyway, why should Thomas?

Besides, if it’s condensation of his workload Hamilton wants, Thomas isn’t opposed to compromising and sloughing off that dead weight instead. He’s made that clear several times but always gets shouted down. No, Hamilton would prefer to play his tiny violin and posture that he’s _for the people_ , and he might believe that to be true, he might _care_ , probably more than Thomas does at any rate, but Thomas is damn sure that his primary motivation is a selfish one; that once all that consolidation occurs he’ll be sat atop the lot, even more critical and influential than he is now. It’s about power, with him, it always is, and Thomas isn’t going to let him have it, because he’s hopeless and unreasonable and would run them into the ground if left to his own devices without a counterweight, no matter how damn pretty he looks on his knees.

“It’s _not_ inevitable,” Thomas grumbles.

“Erm,” James frowns, looks confused. “I don’t think I said it was.”

“Good. Okay then.”

* * *

_[Ben] -_ We’re pretending this isn’t happening right?  
 _[Lucas] -_ I don’t know what you’re talking about   
_[Ben] -_ Got it  
-  
-  
 _[Lucas] -_ Madison headed your way   
-  
-  
 _[Lucas] -_ Wtf did you do   
_[Lucas] -_ I heard that from here  
 _[Ben] -_ shut up I panicked   
_[Ben] -_ I don’t get paid enough for this  
 _[Ben] -_ So we’re talking about it now?  
 _[Lucas] -_ About what?  
 _[Ben] -_ You warned me   
_[Lucas] -_ What?  
 _[Lucas] -_ I just happened to tell you Mr Madison had passed my desk  
 _[Lucas] -_ What’s that got to do with anything   
_[Ben] -_ God, get help before that man ruins you  
 _[Lucas] -_ Who?  
 _[Ben] -_ I give up  
 _[Lucas] -_ Good 

* * *

James manages to _not_ talk about it for a grand total of four days. Well, to his credit, even then he doesn’t exactly _talk_ about it, more like he comes into Thomas's office first thing the following Monday morning and says;

“What are you doing on Wednesday night?”

“Nothing, I don’t think,” Thomas says absently, opening his inbox to a mess of blue unread notifications and feeling the headache already begin to form behind his eyes, because he’s got a quarterly recap with Hamilton this morning and _that_ is bound to last hours and it’s _too fucking early for this_. Why the fuck did he schedule that for a Monday morning? “Did you want to have dinner?”

“No,” James replies, dropping into the chair across the desk. “I want _you_ to have dinner with a new friend of Dolley’s.”

Thomas meets his innocent gaze with a flat look of his own.

“And why would I do that?” 

“Because you’re not doing anything else, because he’s nice, cute and single, because _you’re_ nice, cute and single, and because Dolley asked me if you’d be interested. Is there a problem?”

“No,” Thomas says definitively, because the look on James’s face suggests he thinks there might be, that he’s just expecting Thomas to cause a fuss, and Thomas wants to prove him wrong. “There is not, but you know how hard I’m working right now, I don’t really have time to date-”

“I’m not asking you to devote your life to him for heaven’s sake, just have _one_ dinner with the guy. One nice evening, spend some time away from this place, and-” James pauses and clearly rethinks his next words. “-maybe gain some perspective.”

“I don’t-” Thomas protests, already halfway to saying _no_ , before he stops. It’s not a _bad_ idea, really. James may not have said _away from Hamilton_ but Thomas looks at the fading teethmarks on his fingers and hears it anyway and it’s not a ludicrous suggestion; maybe Thomas’s _distraction_ is all the more fervent for his lack of any other intimate stimulus. He really _has_ been busy, he can’t actually remember the last date he went on because he’s got twelve different projects all coming to a conclusion in the next six months and barely enough time to give a shit about the people he already knows, without having to put in any effort to meet someone _new_ , regardless of how much he’d like to, but maybe it _would_ help. Maybe even if he’s not in the right place to _date_ right now, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little fun for a while, if the guy’s amenable. Maybe all Thomas needs to sort his head out is a night between the sheets, sinking into a willing body and an orgasm that isn’t associated with clever, dark eyes; pupils blown and glazed and blissed looking up at him like-

Yes that might help.

Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to sweeten the goodwill between he and Dolley, because Thomas is pretty sure, despite how lovely she is, that she merely tolerates Thomas for James’s sake, which is a shame. It’s his own damn fault, he’d made a horrific first impression when James had first introduced them; still shell-shocked at the continent switch, not to mention grumpy as all hell after his first week back at work and frankly a little jealous and put out that James didn’t seem to have missed him as much as _he’d_ missed James and he’d followed the terrible introduction up by being stilted and awkward and reserved and what must have come across as incredibly rude judging by the way James had slapped him upside the head when she’d gone to the bathroom and asked _what the fuck is wrong with you_.

He should have known better, really, should have been more prepared when James had wanted to introduce them, should have been ready to meet someone special, because James never did anything halfway, was one of those children who made his mother nervous with his reticence to learn to speak or to walk until one day he’d stood on steady legs and toddled off across the room to get something he needed, nary a wobble in sight. James never did anything until he was ready, and when he did it was impeccably done and so Thomas should really have taken note that while he’d dated, or seen a few women, the novelty of being introduced to a _girlfriend_ wasn’t a bitter reminder of how far removed Thomas was from his friend’s life while he’d been away - how Thomas had grumpily interpreted it - but something important for him to take seriously.

It’s pleasant now, of course, after he’d pulled his head out of his own ass and made damn sure to be as apologetic and charming as possible the next time James had dared invite him to dinner with them. The two of them are amiable and courteous and can hold a polite conversation but Thomas knows there’s a ring hidden in James’s sock drawer, was with him when he picked it fucking forever ago now, and so if he can make a little more nice with his best friend’s _future wife_ by humoring this, for one evening, so be it. 

“Fine,” he says shortly, before he can change his mind and James grins. “Okay. One dinner. What’s his name?”

James shakes his head. “Oh, no. I’m not telling you. I'll give you _tall, dark haired teacher_ and that's it.”

“James-”

“ _No_. We’re not doing this, any more and you’ll just look him up and find something to judge him on before you even meet, because you’re-”

“When have I _ever_ done that?” Thomas protests, and grimaces when James settles back in his chair like he wants to get comfortable. 

“Only every suggestion for the past two years. There was that Daniel from my sister’s running group-” he begins, and Thomas throws his head back to glare at the ceiling and wishes he hadn’t asked. 

“Who had a puka shell necklace. He probably owned a _banjo_ for Christ’ sake-”

“-and there was Charles from the gym-” James continues, ignoring him completely.

“-he was wearing crocs in his Facebook profile photo. Who the _fuck_ -”

“You’re only making my point for me right now you know-” James chides. “-then there was Oliver-”

“Oliver was different, we _knew_ Oliver, he went to cotillion the same year as my sister-”

“-who I suggested you date, because he somehow grew into that hair rather nicely, and you found yet _another_ a ridiculous reason to refuse-”

“He _insulted_ me-”

“He told you your pocket square was too gaudy at a Christmas ball, _eleven years ago,_ Thomas, _good God_. I’m not giving you a name. He knows yours, and I’ll book you a table at that Thai place near us. You’re going to go, meet him, and be _nice_.”

Thomas frowns at him. “Don’t think I don’t know this is all just because you didn’t want to tell Dolley _no_.”

“Partially. Can’t I want _both_ of my girls to be happy?”

“Hilarious,” Thomas grouches, though his lips twitch reluctantly when James smiles at him a little more softly.

“You _do_ know I want you to be happy right? You _do_ know I don't give a damn who it is that _makes_ you happy, whether it’s Charles-with-the-crocs or whether it’s-”

“Yo, _one-percent_ , we doing this or not? Please say _not_ , I had a great weekend and I’d rather not ruin it with your fac- oh, hey Madison.” Thomas glances up to see Hamilton loitering in his doorway - laptop under his arm, cup in his hand and bags under his eyes - and then glances back down at the clock, because he’s not supposed to be here until-

Oh, okay. Until now. 

James leaves without finishing, lips twitching as he offers a patient _good morning, Alexander_ , and Hamilton throws himself down into the vacated chair, kicks his feet up onto Thomas’s desk because he’s an asshole with no manners, and cracks open his laptop. His creased tie is somehow _already_ pulled loose and crooked and Thomas is torn between snapping at him to straighten it and using it like a reign to ride his face. His headache hits full-force. Jesus _Christ_ it’s definitely too fucking early for this.

“Good morning. You look like a sick panda,” he says instead, studiously doesn’t look at the tie. “Did someone finally punch you in the face or were you just that excited to see me that you couldn’t sleep?”

Hamilton snorts and rolls his eyes. “The latter, of course. Beside myself, I was, at the thought of getting to spend all morning being condescended to. Honestly, if I ever decide to off myself I’m just going to climb your fucking ego and jump off it to my tragic, premature doom.”

* * *

“Alright, fine, you’ve got twenty minutes,” Angelica sighs the following week, pulls the nearest mock-up toward her and inspects it. “Is there a reason we’re having this meeting two months before this is even due to be discussed, Thomas?”

She raises an eyebrow at him like she already knows that he’s prematurely trying to get her onside, and it’s not like he doesn’t already _know_ he’s reaching but it’s worth a shot. This surveillance system is his baby, the first product he’s seen through entirely from conception to release and he’s damn well going to put everything he can into it being a success, even if that involves spending a ridiculous amount of time well in advance to make sure his marketing is top notch.

He may have gone a little overboard, judging based purely on the vast array of conceptual art and storyboards littering the table between them, and on the incredulous looks on the faces of the marketing team when he’d laid out his demands, but hey. He’s nothing if not thorough, and besides, ideally he’d like most of them employed in their final commercial strategy for the device anyway. Angelica chuckles throatily when he tells her this.

“You’ll be lucky,” she says. “This is a _lot_.”

“But I think they’re all potential successes,” he argues. 

“Of course they are, my team are very good at what they do,” she waves a hand in the air as if to say, _they’re mine, after all_ , and picks up another storyboard with a considering noise. “Alex isn’t going to be keen on setting out for this much marketing, you know.”

He can tell by the way she flicks a knowing gaze up from the work in front of her that she fully understands _why_ he’s showing these to her so early, before Hamilton can pitch a fit and say _no_ , because if he waits until that happens they both know damn well she’ll not bother to step to her friend over it, not for this. Not for Thomas. But if he can show her the individual merit of each of these pieces beforehand she might help him convince Hamilton to spend out more than he wants to.

“I could give a damn what Hamilton is keen on, Angelica,” he drawls instead, and tries to keep the bite of resentment from his voice at her easy use of Hamilton’s name - only because it’s so obviously _improper -_ but he can’t have succeeded because she cocks her head. 

“What’s wrong with the two of you recently? You’re both twitchy as all hell. Did you have a fight?”

“We’re always fighting,” Thomas frowns. 

“Of course you are,” she says, and he doesn’t quite understand the kind smile, but he’ll take it, because she’s not said _no_ already, even though she knows his angle. He’d sort of expected her to, because he’s well aware that Hamilton’s a firm friend of both her dear sisters and that she sides with Hamilton ninety-nine percent of the time even as she calls him out for being an asshole. He doesn’t know if that’s because of how close they are or just because they’re similar enough that she actually agrees with him most of the time but it’s the same outcome regardless.

But he’s also well aware that she might be the only person besides Washington who’s opinion actually holds some relevance for Hamilton, and that she’s damn good at her job, and so he’s at least trying to appeal to her professionalism. 

“Look,” she says, sighing at last. “I’ll make it known they’re all winners, alright-”

“Thank you, I appreciate that-”

“But I’m also going to rank them for you, because when he inevitably caps your spending from fifteen campaigns down to twelve you at least won’t lose your best.”

Thomas will take it, because this had been his plan in the first place though he’d been aiming for ten, so if Angelica thinks he can wrangle _twelve_ , that’s already a step up. Exaggerating what he wants is his favorite Hamilton-wrangling tactic. It’s like the guy can’t help but haggle and try to fight Thomas down regardless of what he suggests anyway, so overblowing at least means he ends up with something marginally useful, and besides, watching him get all gloriously red in the face at the sheer outrageousness of what Thomas asks for sometimes is always entertaining. He won’t admit that, though.

“He could just _not_ tell me how to do my job,” he grumbles instead.

“I’m pretty sure that part is _his_ job,” Angelica’s lips twitch. “And he _does_ usually know what he’s talking about, Thomas.”

“Christ Schuyler, I hope he’s paying you PR fees for all the lip service,” Thomas snipes, and she raises one perfect brow in warning.

This is why he thinks she’s ended up closer to Hamilton; she’s fucking terrifying and if Hamilton doesn’t recognize that - and he clearly doesn’t by the way they are with each other - then he’s a damn fool. It’s almost comical to Thomas that that their misguided fathers once imagined them future spouses - and thank fuck Angelica had been on the ball in that situation and told her father _no_ in no uncertain terms, because they’d have been terrible, even if he _had_ been straight - because Thomas has never once been interested in being put in his place and he’s damn sure that place would have been under the heel of her shiny, steel-capped stiletto. Besides, her John is exactly what she needs; a steadfast, loyal sort that provides her a much needed base from which to fight her battles. They make a damn good match and Thomas is happy for them; he’d told her so when they’d gotten engaged last month, though he’d offset it with a teasing _well I suppose if one can’t marry a Jefferson a Church will do_ and Angelica had said _I do hope you’re not being beastly to try and get out of my engagement parties_ , and actually, he sort of had been because who needed _two_. 

She lets it pass without further comment - _because the eyebrow is more than enough_ \- just looks down to gather up the pieces to take them away with her and throws him another bone.

“Speaking of PR, though Thomas, it might be worth running these through them before the marketing discussion, just to have that base already covered.”

It’s not a bad idea, and one he hadn’t considered; this way he can at least bypass that inevitable roadblock when Hamilton tries to throw it up. He could very easily start to put his marketing schemes through a PR filter in advance.

It’s also the perfect excuse to finally wander down a floor to the PR team office on his lunch break, under the guise of hunting down John Jay - his preferred contact in that department - to set up a meeting to discuss the campaigns, and just possibly, maybe _happen_ to scope out whoever it is that Adams had mentioned Hamilton pushing for Thorne’s board seat, because he’s not had a real reason to venture down there until now but he damn sure wants to know who he’s going to have to ruin just to spite the little bastard. He’s a little concerned that he’s not even going to know who the guy is, because Thomas has his favorites in each department and doesn’t give much of a fuck about the rest, and he’s heard the name _Robins_ before, feels like he may have worked with the guy once or twice but can’t put a face to the name-

Except it’s obvious who he is. It’s obvious which one of the desks in the shared office is Robins’s, as Thomas barely listens to John talk about his busy week and how _they’d be better off meeting next Thursday if Thomas can manage it_ , because Hamilton’s fucking _sat on it,_ swinging his legs, running his mouth, eating his lunch like he does this all the damn time, and _does he?_ Is that why he’s not been out at the fountain-

And it’s obvious, too, why Hamilton wants this guy on the board, because he’s got the idiot wrapped around his ridiculous little finger; the way the guy keeping flicking glances up at him in badly disguised interest, nodding even though he clearly has no fucking clue what Hamilton’s talking about and granted, incompleteness is a weird topic for a lunchtime rant but it’s not _that_ damn difficult to follow.

“Of course you hate Gödel, Hamilton.” Thomas drawls, unable to help himself, and Hamilton whips around, sharp smile spreading. “The idea of a true but _unprovable_ statement must drive you positively mad.” Hamilton scoffs.

“If something is true, it can be fucking proven, otherwise it’s purely speculative. _End of_. It’s not that difficult-”

“So black and white all the time with you,” Thomas sighs, and Hamilton rolls his eyes.

“Facts are _facts_ , Jefferson-”

“It’s a _fact_ that you’re down here bothering these poor people,” Thomas says, shaking his head, takes two steps over. 

“I am _not_ ,” Hamilton protests, smiles sweetly at down at Robins, and Thomas wants to elbow him right off the desk onto his ass. “Nigel, am I bothering you?”

Thomas almost snorts, because he remembers Hamilton’s conversation in the bar with his friends two months and a lifetime ago and try as he might Thomas can’t imagine him saying _Nigel_ in that breathless, high voice he gets when he’s gasping cusses and prayers but then again Thomas has never heard his own name either and he gets stuck for a second on what _that_ might sound like in Hamilton’s tight, whiny moan, _Thomas, Thomas, fuck-_

Nigel says _no, of course not_ and Hamilton cocks his head at Thomas as he introduces them; _Jefferson, you’ve met Nigel before right?_ And Thomas _has_ , actually, as he shakes the man’s hand in greeting. He recognizes him from a project he’d worked on sometime last year, though his memory is a little off, because he’s not sure he remembers the guy invoking this much visceral _dislike_ , doesn’t remember his voice being so damn annoying, or his hair being so unprofessionally colored, or his grip as he shakes Thomas’s hand so fucking _flimsy_ -

If Thomas hadn’t already decided to sabotage this guy’s chances this would have cemented it for him. Thomas won’t have it. He’s clearly not up to the job.

Besides, there’s no way Thomas is allowing Hamilton to get another board member so deep in his pocket, especially not one so freely led around by his dick, charmed and played so easily. Because that’s what Hamilton’s doing, and Thomas barely refrains from shaking his head at how laughably obvious he’s being, and yet _succeeding_ nonetheless; the odd fluttering of his lashes, the _just_ -slight spread of his knees apart, the way he’s got a small packet of strawberries with his lunch under the guise of them _being in season_ but surely just so he can purse his lips around them as he bites down-

He’s _definitely_ doing it on purpose this time, though it’s not aimed at Thomas, and weirdly there’s a churning in his gut at that, and he reluctantly accepts the possibility that he’s maybe _not_ doing it on purpose the rest of the time, because _this_ is Hamilton on form, _trying_ to distract, and then if _that’s_ the case then _what the fuck._ He doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or relieved at the revelation, because on the one hand it means Thomas is in the midst of a terrifying personal crisis in which he’s marginally fixated on this smartass’s irritating mouth for no good goddamn reason, but on the other hand he can’t help be grateful that this force hasn’t been directed at him. Though it’s transparent as fuck he can’t say it wouldn’t have been horrendously effective, because even now, recognizing the absurdity, Thomas can almost sympathize with the way Robins loses his train of thought and busies himself in a folder, ears red, as Hamilton absently licks pink juice from his own fingers, seals his mouth around his fingertips and Thomas feels the phantom ache of teeth pressing into his knuckles, wet heat around his cock-

When Hamilton looks his way, Thomas rolls his eyes, conveys _you are fucking ridiculous_ with his eyebrows and his disbelieving huff.

He’s not sure if it’s the way he’s becoming used to having entire conversations with Hamilton in which they speak between the lines, or the sheer fact that they share a secret, some marginal fraction common ground, as paper-thin as it is, that puts them somewhat on the same page for once, but he thinks Hamilton understands him; because his lips twitch and his eyes sparkle with amusement, even as he holds the packet out to Thomas and offers him a strawberry with an angelic expression. 

Thomas can’t help but notice how much prettier barely-stifled laughter looks on his face when it’s not aimed _at_ him. 

* * *

From: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
To: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
Subject: G,S & F budget

It’s a shame you circulated this before reviewing it; having to reissue will surely highlight your incompetency.

You’ve neglected to include Greene’s pro bono allowance. Please amend at your earliest convenience.

Thank you in advance for correcting your own mistake,  
T. Jefferson  
Director of Operations  
Washington Industries 

* * *

From: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
To: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: G,S & F budget

I don’t make mistakes.

Better luck next time,  
A.Ham

* * *

From: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
To: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: G,S & F budget

We both know that’s completely untrue.

As you are no doubt aware I allocate Greene seventy-five thousand a quarter for his people - quite literally - taking on charity cases. You should be pleased. It would surely be the only way you’d be able to afford any legal aid if you’d not somehow conned your way past the bar exam.

Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but your recently issued confirmation of fund transfer to be completed tomorrow does not include this allotment.

Should you need any further clarification on this issue, I’d be happy to detail your failing further,  
T. Jefferson  
Director of Operations  
Washington Industries

P.s Just own it and fix it. 

* * *

From: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
To: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
Subject: OH I WILL FEEL FREE ALRIGHT

Jeffershit,

Please find attached a copy of your request for Greene, Scott & Furlong budgetary allowances for the upcoming quarter submitted yesterday. Late, I might add.

Please kindly refer to said document and direct me to where this discrepancy has occurred. I’ll wait.

I’m clearly so incompetent that I can’t see it at all. It’s almost like you didn’t actually request a pro bono allowance.

As always, it is utterly and absolutely my pleasure to point out your _own_ mistakes,  
A.Ham

P.s. go fuck yourself. 

* * *

“I need this fixed,” Thomas demands, storming in to Hamilton’s office, stomach still sinking, because _fuck, fuck_.

“And _I_ need to be on a private yacht in the Mediterranean, drinking champagne while some oiled-up, muscled cabin boy in Speedos sucks me off, but life is shit like that, eh?” Hamilton says, not even looking up from whatever he’s scrawling and Thomas glares at the messy top of his head. It looks a bit like he’s pulled half his ponytail out absently to tug on it, a few dark tendrils hanging loose near his free hand as he writes and Thomas wonders if it’s a subconscious stress thing or maybe possibly a comfort thing and he takes in the truly ridiculous amount of shit covering Hamilton's desk for the first time.

“I’m serious, I need that allowance, I can’t give Greene _nothing_ , even fifty would be better than-" he forges on anyway, determined, because this is sort of an emergency, because Nathaniel will be _pissed_.

“Well if you needed it you should have requested it,” Hamilton says with a shrug.

“For fuck’s sake, Hamilton-“

“Look,” Hamilton finally glares up at him, gesturing at the mess of paper on his desk. “All of the money in Greene's accounts is being transferred out for that investment in Lee's facility. It’s five o’clock and I still have at least four hours of work to do on something entirely separate to your bullshit little screw up. I don’t have the time nor the fucks to give to scavenge your fucking money from elsewhere _and_ get the right forms completed for the transfer of funds by tomorrow morning. It's tough shit, really, Jefferson-“

“It’s the _least_ you can damn well do,” Thomas grits out. “It’s your fault in the first place-“

“ _How the fuck do you figure-_ “

“Because you didn’t damn well argue _anything_ on that proposition for once. I thought you’d maybe gone and got yourself a lobotomy, but no, you _noticed I’d missed it_ and let it go, didn’t you? What kind of an asshole move is that?” Thomas snaps hotly, because it’s probably true anyway, and because it’s better than explaining that it’s _definitely_ Hamilton’s fault because Thomas had only had a semi-functioning brain when working on his legal budgets, too tied up in how to sabotage Robins’s chances at PR head just to spite him, too busy trying to forget Hamilton licking sticky strawberry juice from his own fingers, too distracted thinking about it that he'd had to lock his door and take an _emergency break_ just so he could even remotely _focus_ -

He’d not been paying complete attention and it definitely wasn’t his fault.

Hamilton snorts. “I did _not_. I have other things to do besides monitor you. Since when is it my job to make sure _you_ do yours? What am I, your fucking babysitt-”

“ _Alright_ ,” Thomas snarls. “Alright, _I fucked up_ , is that what you want to hear, you petty bastard? Jesus fucking Christ would you just _fix_ it-”

“What about _I don’t have time_ do you not understand?” Hamilton groans, frustrated, and throws his pen down and it’s clear to Thomas’s sinking stomach then that he’s serious, he’s not posturing to be an asshole. It really is too much. “You are not the center of the fucking universe, Jefferson. Why the fuck is this a problem anyway? Like you really give a shit about normal people being able to get legal advice-”

Hamilton is right but he’s also wrong, because Thomas had been a driving force behind hiking up the rates for their legal branch - they’re very good at what they do and worth a damn sight more than they were charging - but he’d conceded to Greene and other detractors that he’d at least allocate an amount each month to cover a portion of voluntary work each quarter. The compromise had been worth it; they still come out profiting a _hell_ of a lot more; the extra money they’re making from the increased rates far outstrips the allowance and so it has been an unequivocal economical success which is all he was aiming for in the first place, all he cared about, really, but he'll catch hell for missing it and if he lives a little more guilt-free about pricing out some of their customers by setting aside the pro bono allotment then that’s his own business, isn’t it? He’s pretty sure people in need don’t give much of a fuck about the self-serving motives of their benefactors. Case in point; if Hamilton were to ever get his plan imposed, those staff whose jobs would become a little more secure won’t give a damn that he only did it to gain Hanoverian control over their money.

“It doesn’t matter why I care about it if you _don’t have time_ , Hamilton,” Thomas says stiffly, because he’s not about to explain that just to be judged and found wanting by Alexander fucking Hamilton, especially if it will do no good anyway, he’s not giving away any more damn leverage, except something changes, because when he turns to leave, hand already on the door, there’s a pause before Hamilton sighs and snaps out _oh for fucks- where the fuck are you going?_

Thomas watches him stack his papers into no discernible order at all - that Thomas can fathom at least - and put them to once side before retrieving two heavy looking folders from his file cabinet.

"You want your money, you can fucking help me find it,” he grumbles, slamming the folders down with an eye roll. Thomas opens and closes his mouth a few times.

“I thought you didn’t have-”

“I _don’t_ ,” Hamilton snipes. “This is never going to be finished by the morning on my own as well as the other shit I have to do, so if you want it, you can sit the fuck down and make yourself useful for once.”

Thomas hovers for a second, blinking at him, because this is unchartered territory; going out on a limb to offer a concession to a problem that, unlike Lee’s building, has no impact whatsoever on anyone but Thomas. Hamilton could easily let him hit the sidewalk here but he’s not and Thomas doesn’t know what to do with that. Hamilton raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, by all means Jefferson, take your fucking time deciding,” he says dryly, “We’ve got plenty-”

Thomas sits.

* * *

It’s nearly two in the morning. He’s tired, full of too much crappy pizza for a sober Wednesday evening, drunk on caffeine and his guard down to a point where he forgets who he’s with; all of these things are, Thomas tells himself later, the causes of his lapse in ability to think before he speaks. It’s something he normally prides himself on; carefully considered and chosen words instead of running his mouth of with every single thought, unlike _someone_.

But he’s sleepy, and he’s getting the monster of all headaches, and he’s getting increasingly frustrated at the numbers swimming before his eyes, here and there, this page and that.

When he closes his eyes all he can see are unrelated, unhelpful digits.

“Seventy-five thousand in media affiliations account four, is that earmarked for anything?” he says, blinking at the newest page, reeling off the account number once, and then again to confirm once Hamilton has frowned and hunted through a stack of paper to his left and withdrawn one with an acknowledging hum.

“Fifty of it to that pre-natal drug trial Seabury’s lot are hosting in their lab,” Hamilton yawns. “Then eighteen of it needs to stay in there because they’ll need it for that fucking _Insider_ segment Wilkinson’s got a boner for buying himself into this month-”

“You’re actually giving him _eighteen thousand dollars_ for that?” Thomas scoffs. Hamilton rolls his eyes and tips his head back, rests it on the back of the chair. 

“He wanted _thirty five_. Idiot.” Hamilton grunts without looking, unimpressed, and Thomas makes an agreeing noise, distracted into silence. “But apparently _I need to allow him something, sometimes_ , so...” he trails off with a half shrug and Thomas gets the distinct impression that particular instruction had come from on high. Hamilton’s eyes flicker closed for a second and Thomas spares himself a brief, lingering glance at the line of his jaw, the sensitive skin leading up to his ear that Thomas knows will make him shiver just from being subjected to his lips, or tongue or teeth, or even a heavy breath-

“So there’s seven thousand disposable there?” Thomas iterates, brain fuzzy and disjointed, because he’s been wrenching it back to the task at hand all night because he _needs to focus_ and his weariness is making it more and more difficult to argue against leaning over the desk, or _dear god,_ getting _Hamilton_ over it, face down and spread open because there’s nobody fucking _here_ and Thomas could actually, finally-

He startles when Hamilton groans like he’s dragging himself awake and sits up, reaches out blearily to make a note of the figure and the account number on the list they’re slowly accumulating while Thomas sets the sheet aside and moves on, knuckles his eyes in frustration when the next three accounts don’t offer anything of any actual substance. This whole process is so fucking stupid, why the fuck do they have this many accounts?

Brain-to-mouth filter malfunctioning, he says as much.

“This is so fucking stupid, Why the fuck do we need this many accounts?” he growls in frustration, slams the next, useless sheet down on top of the others. “This would be so much easier if the money were all in the same-”

He stops dead. 

For a second, the crippling humiliation at the swipe he’s just taken at his own stance is completely worth the pure, fuming outrage on Hamilton’s face. Thomas is sort of expecting it to bleed into smug self-righteousness any moment now but it looks like Hamilton is stuck primarily on utter fury at Thomas’s blatant hypocrisy, jaw clenched and flushed red with anger and after a few long moments of what Thomas thinks are meant to be attempts at even breathing, though he fails spectacularly, he fixes Thomas a level, burning glare.

“Yes. Wouldn’t it _just_ ,” he spits, voice shaking a little. “Wouldn’t it be _nice_.”

Thomas has never really thought Hamilton might actually swing for him but he’s reconsidering that right now, as the other man glowers at the paper crumpled and creased in his hands like he’s trying to set it alight with the power of thought, because he’s not _yelling_ , which makes Thomas think he’s bypassed that and gone straight to considering outright homicide, leaving Thomas to be forced to sit there with the knowledge that he’s just demonstrated absolute recognition of Hamilton’s need for an overhaul.

Not that he’ll ever admit that outside of this room of course.

Thomas shifts a little in his chair, would normally combat such a slip with unrepentant arrogance, maybe _guess it_ _sucks to be you, doesn’t it_ or possibly _well if you actually came up with a reasonable suggestion perhaps it might be_ except he’s too tired and it feels wrong to do that when Hamilton’s sat here helping him fix his own damn mistake and neither of them have thrown an insult for the whole last hour and it’s been strangely, miraculously _nice_ , actually _working_ together and so he just can’t muster it, is left with uncomfortable awkwardness and a weird, unsettled sensation in his belly that feels unnervingly close to _guilt_ or _nerves_ which is fucking ridiculous-

He blinks and cranes his neck to try and read the list from upside down and Hamilton’s head snaps up. Thomas is a little concerned about the unhealthy shade of his face.

“I’ll settle for the forty-eight we’ve scraped together and leave right now if we never talk about this again.”

“God, _get the fuck out of my office_.”

* * *

Hamilton’s late.

Granted, it's early, but despite the awkward note they left the evening before on, Thomas hadn’t actually expected to be stood up for the first meeting of his day.

In fact, he’d sort of expected they’d pretend the whole night never happened, just like everything else, not for him to be sat in his office, drumming his fingers restlessly, watching the clock tick from _eight_ to _eight ten_ to _eight twenty_ and refraining from going down the hall to see what's keeping the little bastard, because _that_ would maybe look like he’s still nervous or like he’s not sure where they stand and that’s not the case, he just wants to get on with his morning-

When it gets to eight thirty Thomas gives in and calls - his cell, because he’s not about to have this routed through Lucas for everyone to hear later that he’d been nagging - and lets it ring, and ring and _ring_ -

Hamilton answers on the ninth, when it’s obvious that Thomas isn’t going to put the phone down and give up, because once he’s committed to it the only thing worse than chasing him would be to back down while doing it.

“You’re _late_ ,” Thomas grumbles when he picks up.

“Sorry Jefferson,” Hamilton says, not sounding sorry at all. In fact, he sounds mumbled and weird. “I forgot all about you on purpose.”

_“Delightful_ of you-”

“Look, as much as being called up and verbally abused by sanctimonious hypocrites gets me hard, someone _begged_ for their fuckin’ budgets retooling at the last goddamn minute so I’m sure you’ll forgive me for rainchecking, alright, _Jesus fuckin’ Christ_ -”

He sounds exhausted, is what it is, Thomas realizes, can hear the deprivation in his weary voice and how he’s slipping his conditioning. Thomas resolutely doesn’t feel bad. That’s not what they do. Instead, when the line gets muffled and Thomas hears him ask for a _quad with two pumps of caramel, please_ , he looks at the ceiling and tries to muster some outrage instead of whatever this weird, empathetic gratitude is that wants to make it’s way up from somewhere around his navel.

“Are you getting _coffee_?”

“Astute observation Jefferson, so glad you run our entire fuckin’ company’s operations.” Thomas rolls his eyes at the wall. 

“ You’re meant to be three doors down, _actually no_ , you’re meant to be in my office and you’re-”

“Do you want one?” Hamilton asks flatly, interrupting him and Thomas blinks, completely derailed. Is he joking? They don’t do this. Do they? Is this a thing they do now? What the fu-

“Sure? Flat white. Soy milk.”

“Holy shit, even your coffee order has a stick up it’s ass,” Hamilton grumbles and Thomas ignores him, hears the barista in the background chuckling as Hamilton relays his order to the guy with extra profanity.

“It astounds me that some people find you charming, honestly.”

“Go choke on a dick,” Hamilton gripes and promptly hangs up on him, leaves him unsettled and off-kilter for the ten minutes it takes for that coffee to be in his hand and the source of his distraction to be snickering at him because the asshole of a barista literally wrote _ass stick_ on his cup, and Hamilton declares the refurbished coffee shop around the corner to be his new favorite. 

“Of course it is, it’s hipster as fuck,” Thomas grouses. “It’s full of too much hemp and idiots wearing bowties-” 

“ _You_ wear bowties-” 

“Yes, but I don’t do it _ironically_. What a ridiculous notion. Watching reality television or _drinking PBR_ and calling it _ironic_. Just own the fact that you have the palate of a third-world refugee and let’s move the fuck on-”

“Christ you’re such a fucking _tool_ ,” Hamilton snorts, but he laughs, an actual, bright, open, _dorky_ thing and it distracts Thomas so much that it’s not until after he’s gone that he remembers they had actually meant to be meeting for a _purpose_. 

He’s about to call Hamilton back when his email pings with the statements detailing the quarterly fund transfers being issued and when he flicks it open there’s a full seventy-five thousand there for his pro bono budget instead of the forty-eight, the remainder sourced from another five accounts on top of the ones they’d accumulated the night before and _oh_.

He’s not really sure what to do with the confused twisting his stomach does at the sight, or at the knowledge that there's no way Hamilton didn't finish his other work too; that he'd likely not slept at all, and he has to settle for pushing it down and getting safely annoyed by it because of course the guy’s managed to come out of nowhere and throw him off, _again_.

Fucking _Hamilton_. 

* * *

He sulks his way into James’s office with a huff twenty minutes later, still bewildered and irritated and needing to vent, flops down in the spare chair dramatically. James looks over the document he’s reading fatly.

“Hello Thomas. Good to see you. No I’m not busy. You seem in a good mood.”

“Fucking _Hamilton_ ,” Thomas grumbles, flinging his head back to glower at the ceiling. James chuckles and Thomas hears leather squeaking as he gets comfortable.

“I’m well aware you are, please don’t make me think about it any more than I have to,” he says and Thomas frowns, resolutely doesn’t think about the little sting that comes with the reminder that he _hasn’t_ actually gotten inside Hamilton. Not that it bothers him at all, not that he _wants_ to all that much, anyway. Not that he thinks about it _all the fucking time_ , safe in his bed at night remembering the sounds Hamilton makes just for the barely-there gracing of Thomas fingers over his hole and he’s always so sensitive that Thomas can’t imagine how responsive he’d be for something bigger-

“Never mind that, anyway.” James continues pointedly. “How was your date?”

“My what?” Thomas asks, still caught helplessly on the thought of-

Oh _fuck_.

James just looks at him for a terrible, horribly long second that feels like it stretches out into an eternity before he says _no, T_ _homas you didn't-_ and Thomas slides his phone out and pulls up his calendar to double-check, like James is wrong, like it’s somehow going to miraculously show him a different day, even though he doesn’t really need to, even though he already knows damn well that he _did_.

“For God’s sake,” James snaps. “What the hell is wrong with you? Someone insults your choice of pocket square and you remember it for a goddamn decade and yet _this_ you forget?”

“Shit, _shit_ , Jem, I’m sorry. I got a little distracted-“

“Doing _what?”_ James demands. “-and if you say _Hamilton_ I swear-“

“ _Working_ , I promise I was working,” Thomas says quickly, only feels marginally guilty for the lie of omission and hopes it’s close enough that it sounds honest. “Something urgent came up and I was here until the early hours-“

“Well that’s just great,” James scolds, but he softens somewhat, even if his eyes are still narrowed suspiciously. “You know, I was _marginally_ concerned you’d be rude to him and make me look bad by association but this is _excessive_. God, she’s never going to marry me with an ignorant _ass_ for a best man.”

“She’s never going to marry you anyway if you don't damn well _ask_ ,” Thomas mutters, chest tight, because he _does_ feel terrible, he hadn’t meant to, and because while he’s always sort of _assumed_ , it’s the first time James has ever said those words and he doesn’t know what to do with the ill-timed rush of affection right now when he’s being regarded with such disappointment. “Look, I _am_ sorry. Genuine mistake. I’ll call Dolley to apologize this afternoon. I suppose there’s no point in my calling her friend as well-”

“No, please _don't_. He didn't even call Dolley, Christ, how horrific," he puts his head in his hands and Thomas cringes, because he'd been eating pizza and trying not to jump Hamilton over his own desk while some poor guy was sat alone in his favourite Thai restaraunt and he might not have been interested but he'd been raised better than that. He'd just not even _registered_. James sighs. "Honestly we’re damn lucky she likes you otherwise you’d surely have put her off me by now.” 

Thomas grimaces in contrition. “Jem, the first time I met her I thought she was the waitress. If _I_ was going to be enough to put her off you then you wouldn’t be living together.”

James’s lips twitch in spite of himself. “God you’re an asshole sometimes, you know that?”

Thomas smiles sheepishly as he relaxes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to make you look bad.”

“No, it’s partially my own fault,” James sighs, rubbing his eyes wearily. “It’s surely karma for trying to set you up with someone I knew you’d not like. The universe well and truly reminding me to mind my own-“

“Wait _what?”_

There’s a pregnant pause. 

“Thomas the man knits his own _sweaters_ ,” James says eventually, looks over at him almost apologetically as Thomas stares, horrified. “And unlike the hypothetical Daniel, I’m pretty sure he definitely _does_ own a banjo. My Dolley is delightful but her friends are nearly all horrendously new age-“

“Then why the _hell_ was I going out with him?” Thomas demands.

“Because she asked me to inquire, and I thought you’d come off like less of a picky bastard if you at least _seemed_ to give him a chance,” he says, at least looking a little shamed, and Thomas knows his crack the other day had been on target; James would much rather have had Thomas put a pin in this than have to tell Dolley no. Honestly. _Ridiculous_. “Besides, I’d hoped that going out with someone you clearly _weren’t_ interested in might help you figure out who-“

“Well then I take it back,” Thomas mutters. “I’m not sorry. This is all your own fault.”

“Don’t worry, I know how to learn a lesson. You’re on your own,” James says, shaking his head before he pauses and considers Thomas for a second. “ By the way, what _has_ he done now?” Thomas frowns, confused.

“Who?”

“Hamilton,” James says, smiling blandly, but eyes suddenly sharp and too-curious. “You were about to tell me what horrifically irritating thing the little gremlin has done to upset you this time. What was it, pray tell?”

“Oh, nothing. Doesn’t matter anymore,” Thomas looks at the coffee he’d bought with him and decides explaining would _definitely_ be more trouble than the amount of sympathy he’d receive right now. James’s eyes narrow.

“While you were working late last night-” James begins, and Thomas grimaces again. “-were you _alone_ or-“

“Look, you seem very busy, Jem, you said so yourself. I’m going to leave you to it, I think-“

“ _Thomas._ “

* * *

Thomas tries to bring it up to Hamilton, just once, a week later when it’s clear _he’s_ not going to; says _about that pro bono_ but Hamilton rolls his eyes and says _god shut up_ and when Thomas goes to protest he’s only halfway through a teeth-gritting _thank you_ before Hamilton’s on his knees with a huff and a _let me_.

Thomas takes the hint, lets himself be deflected, doesn’t have it in him to protest again anyway, not with the way Hamilton’s already swaying unconsciously forward, biting his full bottom lip, practically vibrating with impatience so much that Thomas’s cock almost hurts with how quickly it gets on board, because _fuck_ , he’s never had anyone so damn _eager_ to get their mouth on him and it’s intoxicating.

It’s not until afterward, until Hamilton’s harsh breaths have lost their pleasant little whimper and his come is cooling on Thomas’s hand and up his wrist that he rolls his shoulders and finally mumbles _you’re welcome_ , like he’s happier to pretend he’s being thanked for _this_ than he is for the other, because he’s fucking insane. 

Thomas lets him have it though because he’s got nothing to be gained from calling him out, and to be honest, he’d rather not have to acknowledge the help any more than his manners have forced him to already, so he rolls his eyes and says _I’m pretty sure I did you the favor there_ and swipes his sticky hand across Hamilton’s cheek just for kicks, gets a grimace and a _get back to me when your legs work again fuckface_ and it’s then that he realizes what it is about this that’s suddenly weird; this is something they’re _joking_ about and it’s easy and the snark is just for the sake of it-

Neither of them are even stressed. They just did this for _fun_.

Thomas retorts _get back to me when your legs grow to a normal size_ and Hamilton flips him off as he leaves but it’s tamer, there’s less venom there somehow, and he waits a minute for it to come back full-force, but it doesn’t. 

Something is different.

* * *

Well. Three hours later when Thomas has finished presenting a new project and asks _any questions_ to a silent room, Hamilton’s blessedly quiet for a wonderful second before he throws out _yeah, are you fucking high? I’m not giving you half a million dollars for this garbage._

So apparently not _everything_ is different.

* * *

It’s because he’s too busy trying to avoid thinking about how it’s _different_ that Thomas is so blindsided a week or so later.

He doesn’t even notice it until they’re partway through; one hand buried in the snarl of Hamilton’s hair, slowly dragging his mouth up and down his dick in a lazy pace because that's something that Hamilton always lets him set however he wants, with a pleased sigh and a relaxed jaw, because he’s ridiculously amenable with a cock in his mouth and it’s fucking glorious, actually. Thomas pulls him down until he splutters and moans, holds him there while he loosens the guy’s tie and tugs a few shirt buttons open to be able to wrap his hand around his neck because Thomas likes to grip him by the throat and feel it under his hand as well as around him when Hamilton swallows. He likes to press his thumb into the space above Hamilton’s Adam’s apple and imagine he can feel his own flesh moving beneath the skin, and besides, Hamilton likes it when he does that too, will shake and whine when Thomas squeezes, because he’s definitely got a breathplay thing; hips jerking and eyelids fluttering closed and it’s just really fucking pretty, alright?

But this time, _this time_ when he pulls Hamilton’s shirt open his brain shorts out, because there’s a bruise, purpling and ugly and mouth-shaped on the visible ridge of his collarbone that Thomas doesn’t recognize, hasn’t put there, and he isn’t in any way prepared for the surge of temper, bubbling, roiling resentment in his gut so strong he has to let go of Hamilton’s throat and grip his collar instead because he doesn’t want to actually _hurt_ him.

He blinks through the shock of it, tries to stop glaring at the little, blotchy patch of skin someone _else_ has had their _mouth_ on and _what the fuck_ , he shouldn’t be _surprised_. He rations that he _knows_ Hamilton - the guy he’d _literally_ stumbled on getting a handjob out the back of a public bar - he’s well aware this… _whatever_ it is, is purely the two of them _working out tension_ , had said as much himself, because of course it is, because the idea of anything else is completely fucking laughable considering they still can’t even hold a conversation without either getting called _incompetent_ or a _bastard_ and ending in someone slamming a door, except those insults have lost some heat and there’s less tension and something is _different_ and why the fuck does this feel so much like _jealousy?_

_Envy_ , his brain helpfully supplies, and he relaxes somewhat, because of course it is, because being faced with outright evidence that Hamilton has a life outside of this place, a _sex_ life, outside of what he gives to Thomas nearing twice a week now is bound to painfully contrast the way that Thomas hasn’t had anyone under him in far too long, is bound to make him feel the absence of that.

That’s bound to make him feel a little nauseated, isn’t it?

Hamilton wriggles against the grip Thomas has on his hair when he uses it to pull him off, slick lips parted and whining, reflexively pulls a little to try and get back before he catches himself, before his breath hitches trying to control it, before he looks up at Thomas all dazed, blown, flushed confusion that sort of makes Thomas want to stroke his hair and yet come all over his face at the same time and _this_ is the other reason he can’t stop doing this, the harder one to admit, why he’d stayed in that godforsaken corridor in the first place; he gets to see Hamilton cracked open, and he likes it.

It’s not necessarily a surprise to him on an intellectual level. Thomas has always enjoyed learning his partners, taking them apart until they’re raw and shaking and bare in more ways than one, until he’s gotten inside them in every way, but he can't deny the increased appeal of seeing _Hamilton_ like that - even this brief, harried glimpse that he’s not just a caffeine-fulled robot programmed to communicate in spite and foul language, that he doesn't exist purely to aggravate Thomas and snap across a boardroom at him, when he finally drops the attitude and is all needy, broken desperation. The sheer exhilaration of being allowed completely _inside Hamilton’s head_ , if only for twenty minutes at a time is not inconsiderable. _That’s_ what’s so fucking galling, the possibility that some guy Hamilton’s picked up at a bar has been allowed to see _this_ , to have it for nothing like he’d done anything at all to earn it-

Hamilton shifts, makes a slightly distressed noise, fingers flexing against his thighs, clearly has no idea what Thomas wants from him and Thomas strokes his thumb down the column of his throat, makes a snap decision and presses into the offending mark until he moans and shivers. 

“Who gave you that?”

Part of him feels weak for even asking, feels guilty for taking advantage of the honesty he’s more likely to get right now, while they’re playing like this, but the bigger part of him wants to know _everything_ about this stupid fucking bruise; wants to know if it was a make out or a fuck, wants to know if it’s a regular thing, wants to know if it was someone Thomas knows, if it was _Robins_ , wants to know if he’d come as hard as Thomas makes him-

Hamilton blinks up at him for a long moment and Thomas waits, taps the bruise until he finds his words, mumbles out _guy from a party, Saturday-_

“He fuck you?” Thomas demands bluntly, unable to stop himself forging ahead and getting answers to all his questions now those floodgates are open. Hamilton makes an assenting, agreeing noise in the back of his throat, _yes_ , and Thomas seethes.

“-used protection,” Hamilton grumbles under his breath like he thinks _that’s_ Thomas’s problem, which it maybe _should_ be and not that he just apparently objects massively to the thought of some stranger getting to be inside Hamilton’s head and inside his body in a way that Thomas hasn’t yet. And _that’s it_ , he tells himself with sudden relief. If there’s any jealousy there at all it’s because he’s annoyed that it’s something Hamilton’s giving away to every-fucking-body that Thomas hasn’t _had_ yet, that’s all, and would he _ever_ get to-

“He fuck you _good_?” Thomas asks instead of following that thought, the question bubbling out of him without his permission, even though he’s not sure he actually wants an answer but Hamilton makes a noise that sounds like _eh_ and wrinkles his nose in obvious disinterest, leaves Thomas’s stomach still churning but painfully, horrifically relieved, which is something he doesn’t want to examine any time soon. 

Or, y’know. Ever. 

He relaxes his grip, gives himself a few strokes and offers his dick back to Hamilton; tries not to think of it like some kind of perverse reward for having shit sex. He stops feeling even remotely guilty when Hamilton suckles on the end of him, groans low in his throat, wet and greedy and Thomas lets himself imagine it, how gloriously needy his ass would be, if one extrapolated on how desperate he is to suck Thomas down when he lets himself _show_ it-

“Touch yourself,” Thomas orders, watches Hamilton obey; have his own dick in his hand in a hot second, moaning high and thin around Thomas holding him open and _god_ , Thomas twitches with the control, marvels at it like he always does, that Hamilton lets him have it, relinquishes it to Thomas almost laughably easily. Sometimes Thomas thinks he’s just desperate not to have to think for once, to let Thomas do it for him, to make it _good_ for him. And it is; Hamilton's eyes closed, his lashes wet, utterly calm as he bobs and swallows and does that ungodly little thing with his tongue that makes Thomas's eyes almost roll back in his skull-

“That’s it, yeah, just like that,” he grunts, puts his hand back around Hamilton’s throat now he’s calmer, watches where he’s sinking into that mouth and Hamilton shivers, lets out a pleased hum. “Needed it, huh?” 

He doesn’t know quite whether he means _this_ , or that fuck, but if it’s the latter then he wants to think the little whimper he gets in response is a _no_ , wants to think he wasn’t desperate. He doesn’t really want to know if he was, doesn’t really want to know if they’d given him what he needed, doesn’t want to know if they’d known about the oral fixation, or about how he goes boneless and pliant with a well-timed praising word, or about how he gets dizzy after he comes like he’s given it all he has, like he does with fucking _everything_ , about how he likes the oversensitivity of aftershocks, of the almost-pain shaking through him until he stops himself, presumably lest Thomas mock, even though he definitely wouldn’t, _god_ had the guy known-

Thomas pulls him off again; the frustrated whine he gets almost bleeding into a growling sob until Thomas tugs hard on his hair and makes him look up. “Ask for it,” he says, somehow hard and shaky at the same time. 

He sees the hesitation flash over Hamilton’s face before he steels it, swallows and licks his swollen lips; Thomas has never asked for this before, of course but something is different now after all and he suddenly, _keenly_ wants it, wants to hear how he _needs_ Thomas to choke him with his cock more than that fuck he’s just described as _eh._

“Please can I-” Hamilton chokes out, slight whimper in his voice and eyes intent on Thomas’s left knee until he obviously shakes himself down and decides that if he’s going to do this he’s going to make it damn good and _shit_ , does he; looks up sweet and pleading from his knees, even as his hand still moves slowly on himself, eyes on Thomas’s. “ _Please_ , let me suck you. _God, I want it_ , I need it, _please-_ ”

Thomas groans and pulls him back down, gives him what he wants instead of busting all over his face like he's almost tempted to do and fuck, _fuck_ there’s no way his ass wouldn’t be as hot as his mouth. _B_ _etter._ There’s no way that pleading breathiness wouldn’t sound even more incendiary if it was perched on the end of Thomas’s dick begging to be fucked into the mattress.

“Next time you need it, it’s gonna be me, you know-” Thomas growls, not sure which one of them he’s telling, holds his head still while his hips thrust up; hot and wet and perfect and _fuck._ He thinks about office drinks planned for Friday, engagement celebration for Angelica, pictures Hamilton as he usually tends to be at these things after they vacate the office function room and take it somewhere else; leaned back against the bar, hips canted in invitation, eyes alight and an expression that says _try not to bore me._ Thomas has watched countless helpless mosquitoes flying into that trap and getting zapped away until Hamilton inevitably does get bored, or gets his attention caught long enough to be taken home, or out the fucking _back_ , apparently and there’s absolutely no way Thomas is going to abide it this time. He’s damn well going to end his working week with Hamilton’s thighs tight around him, _screaming_ , see him describe _Thomas_ as _eh_ -

“Gonna get you spread out and eat you till you cry, until you’re _begging_ me to fuck you-” Hamilton shakes around him, a telltale sign and Thomas tugs on his hair sharply. “-I swear to god, Hamilton, you bite me and I’ll fucking _kill_ you-” but his concern is momentarily outweighed by the burning desire to know what it feels like, just a little, having Hamilton _come_ around him, and he’s not disappointed when Hamilton swallows thickly once more around his cock before shaking apart, throat spasming and clenching so fucking nicely that his own orgasm hits like a freight train a second afterward.

Hamilton stands too quickly after wiping his own come from Thomas’s floor, sways a little on his feet because he’s not gotten his breath back properly yet and Thomas automatically steadies him, doesn’t think anything of it until Hamilton blinks at the hand light on his hip and Thomas speedily removes it, because apparently that’s still too much touching. He’s saved from worrying that he’s made it weird, because Hamilton almost walks into the doorframe on his way out, still dazed, and Thomas can crack up with laughter to cover the slip, earns himself a middle finger thrown his way for the trouble.

He laughs again when he sees the folder still lying on his desk; the document Hamilton had blown in demanding Thomas sign, all energy and chaos and tone a little too hard really for a Monday morning, for how they were now, until Thomas had said _you seem stressed_ and Alexander had growled, locked the door, thrown the folder down and spread Thomas’s knees to fit between. 

He signs it now and resolutely doesn’t look up, or even speak when Hamilton comes back ten minutes later, flushed and furious in his humiliation; all that hard work ruined in a matter of minutes. 

Thomas holds it out to him as the door opens, mouth twitching.

Hamilton snatches it, steps out and comes back a second later to throw a brick of post-its at his head. It misses. They always do, because he’s a shit shot. Thomas calls _have a nice day_ as he stalks off.

It’s going to be a great week.


	4. Chapter 4

Alex is having a _great_ week.

It hadn’t started off all that well, but after burning out some energy on Jefferson’s office floor on Monday it’s only gotten steadily better. He’s ready to present his consolidation plan, finished and prepared an entire week before the board meeting, he’s _almost_ on top of his inbox, for the first time in what feels like his whole damn life and most importantly, the dumbass who manages the accounts for Seabury’s research facility just made the biggest fuckup since the first person to wear socks with sandals. He’s thoroughly pissed at it, of course, because he now has to _fix_ said mistake, however he’s mostly ecstatic because the guy is a walking spatula and Alex has been trying to get rid of him for pretty much the entirety of the two years since the takeover and now he gets to fire the fucker.

He’s so fucking happy about it he might even crack out his _office wine_ to celebrate.

“That’s so unprofessional of you,” Jefferson sniffs, when Alex says this on Wednesday, because he’s in such a good mood he doesn’t even mind conversing with Jefferson. _That’s_ how well his week is going.

Alex raises a single, incredulous eyebrow at him in lieu of a reply, almost thinks about pressing their mouths together to remind Jefferson that Alex’s tongue still tastes like his come, that Jefferson’s hand is probably still sweaty from Alex’s dick, that he’s literally only just put himself back together, talk about fucking _unprofessional_ , but he doesn’t, because despite what Jefferson thinks, Alex has _some_ class, and also because Jefferson is already nodding in concession, albeit with a grimace.

“Okay, okay, _touché_. Do I even want to know what _office wine_ is?”

Alex looks at him blankly. “What the fuck does it sound like?”

“It _sounds_ like a bottle of wine you keep hidden to drink alone in your office whenever you win arguments and get people fired, like a complete goddamn psychopath.”

“Then there you fucking go.” Alex shrugs. “Any more stupid questions?”

“Actually-” Jefferson says, frowning and wrinkling his nose, “-god help me, but _yes_. Why the fuck is it prefaced with _office_ , surely it’s just wine-”

“It’s wine you _specifically_ drink _in the office_. Prefacing it that way makes it sound illicit. Everything’s more fun when it feels wrong.” Alex grins at his own implication but Jefferson looks at him flatly, refuses to be amused even though he’s _obviously_ right because surely their hooking up wouldn’t be half as enjoyable if it didn’t come with a side of furtive unprofessionalism.

“You’re ridiculous,” he tells Alex with a raised eyebrow. “You need an _office therapist_.”

Alex scoffs. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of your inability to act like a normal person?”

“Of the massive lack of a stick up my ass.”

“ _Wine_ , Hamilton. Can’t you at least just get yourself a decent bottle of scotch for Heaven’s sake -”

“Just because something costs more than groceries for a family of five doesn’t mean it’s any _good_. It tastes like lighter fluid,” Alex pulls a face and then admits; “I don’t like the burn.”

Jefferson’s smirk says Alex is about to hear some crack about a completely different kind of stinging, stretching _burn_ that, to be fair, he definitely _does_ like, but he throws up a middle finger to stave off the insult because he’s not about to have it thrown in his face, especially not when Jefferson hasn’t got a fucking clue just how _much_ he likes that.

Yet.

_Next time you need it-_

_Begging me to fuck you-_

He resolutely doesn’t go there. He’s definitely _not_ been going there for two days, besides those rare few minutes he’s had to himself in bed in the early mornings. That swelling anticipation, the burning curiosity as to whether Jefferson can back up that big talk, and the sneaking suspicion that he _can_ , is absolutely not a contributing factor in his so-far excellent week.

“What the hell else are you keeping squirreled away in there?” Jefferson asks, rolling his eyes. “You have your diary and your porn collection stashed in a drawer too?”

Alex snorts and doesn’t mention that the bottom two drawers in his filing cabinet are actually full of overnight supplies, just on the off chance he needs them. He’s alright admitting to his office wine, but he’s pretty sure acknowledging his _office toothbrush_ or _office pillow_ would come with an understanding of just how many times he ends up staying here and prompt a level of ridicule he’s not willing to endure.

“I’ve an entire bottle with your name written on it, actually,” he says instead, because he does. “-dedicated to the day I finally drive you away.”

Jefferson shakes his head. “Sweet, but a waste. You may as well give up and drink that now.”

"As if you think I ever give up," Alex snorts and makes for the door because-

"I hope you don't _actually_ think I didn't notice you never answered my question," Jefferson says flatly, and Alex winces, because he's not ashamed to admit to himself that he definitely _had_ been hoping that somewhere inbetween biting at this one particular bit of Alex's throat like it had personally offended him and fucking his face Jefferson might have gotten a little distracted and forgotten he'd been pissed at him before that.

Hey, if Alex can get off scot free by literally getting off, that's just fucking perfect, no?

Apparently not.

"-and what question was that, again?" Alex asks innocently, just to keep up appearances, and by the unimpressed expression Jefferson knows that damn well, but he plays along.

"Did you tell Cooper that he couldn't have the packaging supplier he wanted and to source a secondary option?"

"Yep," Alex says, because _fuck it_. "Because when I told you the exact same thing last week, and the week before, _and the week before that_ , you didn't listen, and contrary to your opinion, I _do_ actually get bored of hearing myself speak eventually-"

"He doesn't _need_ a cheaper supplier, Hamilton," Jefferson snaps, sitting forward in his chair, and Alex laments the tension suddenly evident again in his posture, if only because he prides himself on a job well done. 

But needs must. 

"Yes he fucking does," Alex says plainly. "The one you're all jerking off over would take up thirty percent of that entire budget. It wouldn't hurt you to find an accredited alternative." Jefferson inhales sharply and glares.

"That's not the _plan_. I was working on fitting it in."

"Oh, and was the _plan_ to sign agreements with all of his suppliers that you can't get out of without breakout clauses so that I have to agree to honor them?" He snorts when the line of Jefferson's mouth gets even thinner. "It's like you think I'm fucking stupid sometimes, honestly-"

"You're an obnoxius, stingy, annoying little bastard but I'd be an idiot myself to assume you _stupid,_ " Jefferson says with a scowl, and Alex blinks, because that had almost sounded like a complement. "Could you just let me do my goddamn job without meddling for once-"

"But it's so much easier when I just do it _for_ you," Alex says sweetly. "I'm just so much better at it, you see-"

" _Out_ ," Jefferson snaps, and Alex grins. "Get the fuck out-"

“Sounds like _somebody_ needs some _office wine_ of their own. Might not be so fucking uptight-” he says obnoxiously loudly on his way out, and smirks when something heavy-sounding hits the door after he’s closed it.

* * *

From: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
To: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
Subject: Carlsden

Hamilton,

I do hate to interrupt your hectic schedule, but might I politely request you review this contract at your earliest convenience?

Unfortunately your unreadable mess of an autograph is required before we can continue and it’s been on hold for rather a while now.

I look forward to hearing from you (instead of just hearing you screaming from down the hall),  
T. Jefferson  
Director of Operations  
Washington Industries 

* * *

From: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
To: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: Carlsden

Jefferson,

Quite right, too. As it should be.

I’ll get to it when I can. Rather busy you know.  
A.Ham

* * *

_[Jeffershit] -_ the fuck are you busy you little asshole  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ two hours ago you were in here going on about your damn wine  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Precisely  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Can’t help, sorry  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ For god’s sake  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Just look over the contract

* * *

From: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
To: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: Carlsden

Psyche.

I already reviewed it.

Attached.  
A.Ham

* * *

_[Jeffershit] -_ I hate you  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Stop being so goddamn cheerful  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ You’ve given me a migraine  
 _[A.Ham] -_ This week just gets better and better  
 _[A.Ham] -_ That I *can* help with  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ I swear to god you fucking dick if your next words are “office wine”  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Just saying  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Clear that right up  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Until tomorrow, genius  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Eh  
 _[A.Ham] -_ That’s future-Jefferson’s problem to worry about  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ And with that philosophy the utter mess you are suddenly makes so much sense  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Fuck you  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ No, fuck you  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Maybe when I’ve drunk enough that I can pretend you’re someone with an actual personality  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Oh yes, I get the impression that quality is high on your list of priorities

* * *

A few hours later, Alex is partially regretting his smugness, because it’s not like he has _spare_ time, he’d just had a human amount of things on his to-do list for once, a schedule that doesn’t make him want to cry just looking at it, but his bragging clearly sets him at odds with the universe because he suddenly finds himself with a fresh mountain of work. He realizes he has to actually find a replacement for Simons, which means sneaking into and hunting through all of his staff’s records to make sure there isn’t anyone he likes enough to covertly promote before he sends Wolcott a request to put out an advertisement. He has to fix Simons' mess, he has to draft a policy that will prevent something so stupid happening again, and then _right_ before he leaves for the evening Washington sends him a link.

It's an article in the _Standard_ by some dick tearing into construction companies for some _unethically sourced materials_ and it specifically namedrops Mercer as a culprit, and _okay, whatever_ , that’s probably not _great_ , but more importantly they can’t have that shit out there for people to see.

This technically isn’t Alex’s job; this should go to Thorne’s team to smooth it over, put out a statement, promise to do better, _yada yada_ , but the simple fact that Washington has sent this to him - no subject, no context, just a single link - leaves him in with no doubt of what’s expected. Washington doesn’t want this out in the world, doesn’t want it _smoothed over._ He wants it _gone_.

And so he turns his computer back on, kicks his shoes back off and spends the next four hours digging up everything he can on this journalist, from semi-racist decade-old tweets to a mugshot for possession of class A’s and starts compiling an anonymous complaint so scathing he’s ninety percent sure he can feel the guy’s career ending with every word he types, every damn thing the poor fucker has ever written undoubtedly removed from public consumption by noon tomorrow, except he’s only two-thirds through that diatribe when fate decides to shit on him some more; sends him another middle finger in the form of Philip Schuyler wanting him to review a speech _if he’s not too busy-_

He _is_ busy, of course, but he’ll make time, because it will help Alex out in the end, doing this favor, because Schuyler has his own dedicated speechwriters to deal with his everyday needs but he still reaches out to Alex for his input before he runs with anything particularly important, or controversial and apparently accepting a governorship qualifies. Alex reads _come out with a bang_ and _make an impression_ in his email and snorts. Well. If he can do anything it’s cause a loud fucking bang alright.

And so Alex fetches himself a coffee, pulls his feet up under him and gets to work on that, as well.

This shit is a favor he’s been doing forever; since the summer after freshman year, when Eliza had browbeaten them into joining her family upstate, horrified that he and John, already joined at the hip, planned to spend the time working all the hours god sent and to be fair they’d needed to do that to be able to split rent on the tiniest bedsit in the entire fucking city, because Alex’s scholarship didn’t exactly cover the summer months and because John was still trying to teach his father a lesson Alex didn’t really understand, but hadn’t argued with him about because he hadn’t wanted to be alone.

Alex had spent the first week with the Schuylers so completely uncomfortable he’d re-packed and almost made excuses to leave until Eliza, because she truly was the most understanding, delightful, beautiful soul to have ever lived, sat in the parlour one evening and said to Alex; _daddy has to publicly announce his intention to run for senate this week_ and then to her father; _you should let him look over your announcement, daddy, Alex has a real way with words-_

By the end of the summer Philip Schuyler was a shoe-in and Alex had had his first lesson in how useful it was to be able to do things for people and what you could ask from them in return for those favors.

(Coincidentally, that summer was also the last time he’d kissed a girl; lips against Eliza’s in gratitude and comfortability and not much else. He’d regretted it almost the second he’d done it, already well aware that while soft curves and loveliness were capable of getting him off, he’d never be fully satisfied without the rough press of hard muscle against him, into him, and that Eliza was far too _good,_ but he’d done it anyway because he was a fucking idiot and he wasn’t really sure what else he had to offer her in return besides himself, except Eliza had always understood too much, had smiled before he’d even pulled away, eyes dancing and humoring and patient like he was a toddler who’d brought her a flower from her own garden. _Do me a favor Alex_ , she’d said, _never kiss another woman_ and he’d taken that advice soundly.)

Alex has been quietly throwing himself behind her father’s career ever since, anonymous words gracing press releases and podiums and the debate halls of Congress, spoken by more than just Schuyler; Alex’s details passed on for ad-hoc requests by Philip to select members of his party until Alex had a continually fluctuating network of favors to call in as and when he needed them.

Even if he hadn’t called in every one of those favors at least once during those rocky takeover years - and he had - Alex takes an almost perverse amount of glee in knowing how far and wide his reach could actually spread if he really wanted it to, how many pies have at one point had his fingers pressed into them, even if only for the satisfaction of proving he’d been there.

God bless the power of being able to do things for people.

Schuyler’s been asking for more and more lately though, and he wonders if the man can tell Alex’s noticeable lack of banking those favors means he’s saving them all, gearing up to ask for something big in return.

Granted, he _is_ , but he doesn’t really need Schuyler working that out and milking him for all he’s worth in the meantime, because he’s got so much to do before he gets there that his head spins thinking about it.

It’s more the following day than the one before by the time he fires an amended speech back to Schuyler, sends off his scathing complaint to the _Standard_ and drags himself home, though the sun isn’t risen yet at least, so he still has a few hours. He tries not to clunk too much getting into the apartment, curses that little squeaking noise the door has been making at this time of the morning for the last eight months but that he _keeps_ fucking forgetting to buy oil for, and prays he doesn’t wake Hercules up, because that man is the calmest, most zen, rational motherfucker in the world until his sleep is interrupted and then he may as well be a goddamn serial killer.

Alex actually isn’t sure why the fuck Herc and Laf even still live here, because he and John had moved into a three-bed and invited Herc to live with them while Laf spent that year in Paris, to keep him company, to save on his rent, except Laf’s been back for three fucking years now and they’re both _still_ here. _I didn’t realize how much these stupid fuckers need us, keeping them alive is exhausting_ , Herc had cracked within an hour of his boyfriend being back in New York, and Laf had snorted _I suppose we had better stick around then mon coeur_ , which Alex had taken as a joke, because he and John have always been able to take care of themselves, or at least each other, perfectly well, _thank you very much._

He sort of thinks they’re maybe saving up for a place of their own, and so he doesn’t ask, because money is one of those touchy subjects with them; Herc is too similar to Alex in that regard and he knows his friend will want to contribute evenly, even though Laf would no doubt be able to afford the damn thing outright if he wanted and Alex doesn’t want to spark a fight.

Besides, it’s nice having all of the people he loves most under one roof.

He tries not to bang the cupboard doors too loudly as he ransacks the kitchen for something to eat, winds up settling for shoving an entire slice of bread into his mouth before shuffling towards his room, but stops, because there are traces of a familiar scent blowing through the hallway and enough light under John’s door that Alex can’t attribute it to the moon. He stumbles while tripping off his shoes, trying not to choke on bread and hovers for long enough to ascertain that John is indeed alone before he eases the door open and peers in.

John lolls backward off the bed and he shakes his head when he sees Alex still in his suit. There’s three quarters of a joint hanging glowing between his lax fingers and the skin around his right eye is a painful-looking reddish-purple.

He’s been out alone, then.

“God, I hoped you were out doing something fun at least, but _no_ ,” John half-whispers and Alex scoffs, smacks his lips because dry bread isn’t the greatest snack, even as he shuts the door behind himself and flops down to curl up beside him, frowning.

“It’s fucking _Wednesday_ , Jack. What the fuck are you doing? Are you alright?”

John raises his hand to Alex’s face so that Alex can take his own hit, and _fuck it,_ it’s not like he’s not ass-backward with a lack of routine or temporal awareness anyway, and so he does. John waits until he’s taken a few before turning his head properly and even in the dim light, as his freckles all blur into dark smudges across the tops of his tanned cheeks, he looked agitated, mouth set in an upset line that looks wrong on his easygoing face. John likes to talk things out about as much as Alex doesn’t, and he’s clearly fucking ready for it, so Alex meets his gaze and gives him what he needs.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I kissed Betsey,” John blurts. Alex coughs around another inhale.

“You _-shit-_ you did _-fuck-_ you did what? Wait, like, kissed her or - _kissed_ her?” It’s an unusually important distinction for Alex, who finds himself in the situation of having kissed all of his closest friends at one point or another. John hums and looks back at the ceiling while he considers.

“The second one. I think.”

Alex blinks. “Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Hell of a right hook on her,” Alex snorts, indicates his face, and John elbows him hard enough to make him grunt.

“Asshole. At the weekend,” he mutters, and Alex nods. Peggy and Eliza had come over, Laf and Herc out at some couple’s retreat that Alex was _definitely_ imagining as a swinger’s party because they absolutely fucking _would_ , and they’d played cards and drunk too much until Peggy had gotten a late night booty call and savagely abandoned them because _I love you losers but I love pussy more_ (and really, if there had been a Schuyler sister for Alex maybe it had been Peggy all along, girl after his own heart). Alex had bailed to bed an hour later because he’d needed to wake up human enough to work and he hadn’t really been bothered about asking John what had happened after that but now he supposes he knows.

Alex sighs and relieves him of the last dregs of his joint. So he’s been stewing on this a couple of days, has been out tonight getting fucked up and beat down over it, for some ungodly reason. “D’you wish you hadn’t, then?”

John frowns over at him. “No, it was-”

He waits for John to finish but he doesn’t, just leaves it awkwardly hanging there and Alex raises a questioning eyebrow.

“So… what the hell is the problem?”

John huffs. “Can I date her?”

“Why the fuck are you asking me?” Alex blinks, confused and a little fuzzy headed.

“I’m not asking _you_ , idiot. I’m just _asking_. Is that something I can do? Like, realistically? What if it doesn’t work out? I know I, like, _try_ , but all my shit falls apart, every fucking time, obviously, or I’d be hopelessly in love and settled down right now-” he skitters a wary half-glance up at Alex and forges on. “-so what if we date and it’s fucking _horrible_. Everything will be fucked and messy and every sitcom ever made makes it clear you don’t date inside the group-”

He carries on mumbling a little nonsensically, waving an emphatic hand to express something Alex isn’t quite sure he understands but gets the gist of and rolls his eyes.

“For fuck’s sake Jack this isn’t _Friends_ ,” he sighs, tips his head back on the bed and eyes the ceiling until the squares up there looked like a chessboard. “If that’s your issue, you don’t fucking have one.”

John makes an unhappy, confused noise and Alex rolls over to get right up in his face, because he’s being fucking ridiculous. John isn’t an asshole. Eliza isn’t an asshole. If they start something, Alex knows damn well they’ll both give it everything they have and if it isn’t to be, it would surely be sad for them, and probably a little awkward for everyone a while, but it’s not like either of them will do anything tear-us-all-apart-messy and so they’ll all get the fuck over it in the end.

When he says this, though, John looks at him for a long second before bursting into a fit of stifled laughter. Alex thinks about headbutting him in his ungrateful fucking nose.

“Jesus fucking-” John snorts. “I’ve literally had phone batteries survive for longer than any relationship of yours. How the _fuck_ you’re able to say that with a straight face I don’t know-”

Alex pokes him right on his bruised eye in retaliation. John makes a sulky, pained noise and stops laughing abruptly.

“Fuck you very much,” Alex grumbles and pulls a face. “We were talking about you. _One_ , I don’t need a personal attack from a douchebag that thinks being punched in the face is an appropriate coping mechanism. _Two_ , I hooked up with Peter for eight fucking months before he got weird, that’s literally _forever_. And _three_ , I don’t _need_ to know anything about being in a relationship. I know you. I know Betsey. How the fuck is anything made up of the two of you going to be horrible?”

John blinks and swallows for long enough that Alex sort of wants to make a crack about rebooting him like one of his computers, but he eventually flops over onto his back with an annoyed huff. “You’re not allowed to smoke anymore. It makes you make too much sense. I don’t want sense. I want to get high and fight until it’s not even a situation I need to think about anymore.”

Alex snorts and leans over onto his side to peer up at him with narrowed eyes. “Well now I know that’s terrible decision making, because it sounds like something _I’d_ say.”

John’s surprised laugh is high and a little giggly before it dies in his throat as he sighs. “So, you think I should- do something about it?”

Alex shrugs one shoulder. “I think dating is a booty call with a side of unnecessary bullshit, but you’re into that garbage, so, if you’re both-” he waves an errant hand to convey _if you’re both in agreement_. “-I just don’t see why you _shouldn’t_ , if you want to, is all.”

John hums in consideration and Alex suspects it’ll be the last he hears of the situation for a while. John’s either all verbal diarrhea about his exploits or complete honorable stoicism if he thinks he’ll actually see the person again, if it might go somewhere. There’s no question which way he’ll swing with this, thank fuck, because Alex isn’t a prude, they share those stories willingly, but he doesn’t need to hear that shit about _Eliza_.

If he considers it objectively - _selfishly -_ it’s completely ideal, actually, if they can make it work. The two of them could be utterly perfect for one another, both just looking for that person to adore until the end of time - surely the same reason he’d have ruined both of their lives if he’d have let himself love either one of them, because he’s pretty damn sure he’d be fucking awful at that. Alex would likely never have to worry about losing John; almost ten years on and Eliza is surely now well-equipped to handle the Laurens-Hamilton separated-at-birth situation, so there’d be far less chance of that unpleasant argument John always ends up having with his partners when they inevitably decide they don’t like Alex.

Eliza, at least, already knows exactly what kind of an asshole John has for a best friend.

And by god they’d make horrifically beautiful babies. He’d be the best fun uncle.

Well shit. This is _great_.

He regards John with an attempt at a serious nod. “I think you should.”

“Well thank you for that stellar input, Lex,” John says, looking like he’s trying not to laugh again, the fucker. “Very much appreciated.”

He rolls over to face Alex and tugs at his collar with a huff of breath and an obvious plea for a subject change. “ _I_ think you should tell me what the fuck is going on _here_ ,” he says, and pushes at the just-visible part of Alex’s clavicle. By the way the dull pain throbs up his neck, he’s jabbed a bruise. A Jefferson bruise.

“Vampires, Jack. Underbelly of the city is full of them. Nasty things. Avoid at all costs-”

“ _Alex_ ,” he snorts. “Don’t be a dick. New friend?”

“Hardly,” Alex rolls his eyes at the thought. “Just a thing.”

“Just a thing, huh,” John repeats fondly, stress forgotten for now. Alex stretches out and blinks at the clock on John’s nightstand by his foot. He needs some sleep if he’s going to function tomorrow, because he only got an hour or two in the night before, too excited to finish his presentation, and as it is he’s already well past the point of any genius occurring for the next day or so at least. He sits up slowly, scrunching his face at the head rush.

“Just a thing,” he confirms and then stands before John can ask any more questions, because he’s fully intending to go to his grave never admitting this small-but-troubling period of clearly overwhelming insanity and lapsed judgment in which he’d actively enjoyed sucking Thomas Jefferson’s stupid, condescending, perfectly-proportioned cock. “-and open a fucking window in here will you, they’re already going to go mad when they see your face.”

* * *

“You’re awfully twitchy this evening,” Angelica remarks, cocking her head and looking consideringly at him.

“ _You’re_ awfully engaged this evening,” Alex grins, and she giggles, because he’s smooth when he wants to be, and because far too many people have already handed her celebratory glasses of champagne, which he then does as well, and receives a peck on the cheek in thanks.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” she preens as they clink, and smiles warmly down at the boulder on her left hand in a way he hasn’t seen her do yet, like although she’s been engaged for a damn month the fact that they’re finally getting round to celebrating has given her permission to enjoy looking at it. “I don’t relish wedding planning with the business year we have upcoming though.”

“Bullshit,” Alex snorts indelicately. “I’m surprised you don’t do Jefferson’s job for how you like to project manage. You’re like me, you love the challenge.”

“I am _not_. I, for one, know how to delegate.”

“Yet insist on being cc’d into every single conversation anyway. You _do_ know John will expect you to stop checking your email on your honeymoon,” Alex says, and then laughs at the uneasy look on her face. “Don’t look so glum, just do it in the bathroom when he’s not looking.”

“And therein lies the entire ethos of one Alexander Hamilton. _Don’t change your unhealthy habits, just hide them_ ,” she raises an amused eyebrow, even though they both know damn well she’ll be doing exactly that from her luxury resort in the fucking Seychelles or whatever.

She really is too much like him sometimes.

“If you can’t prove it, it never happened,” he shrugs, and she laughs.

“ _Lawyers_. I suppose you’ll be able to stick your nose in and keep an eye on my guys if I need it anyway,” she says, offhand and teasing. “You’ll be bored out of your mind after you finally get this thing approved next week.”

Alex almost rolls his eyes, because it’s like he’s not got a million other, bigger things to follow afterward, like this isn’t just stage one of _creating_ something. It’s like this plan is seen as the culmination of his entire life’s work or something, and how goddamn depressing would that be.

Like his aspirations are that _small_.

This entire fucking _company_ is his _magnum opus_ , and it’s nowhere near finished yet.

“Hardly,” he scoffs instead, because he’s not about to tell her that. He trusts Angelica, but not that much. Alex doesn’t trust anybody _that_ fucking much. “I have to actually implement the bastard after that, you know.”

She waves him off. “As if you’ve not already maneuvered the framework into place,” and fair, he _has_ , but he’s not admitting that either. She chuckles knowingly at his pleasant blankness. “So predictable, Alex.” He huffs.

“If it wasn’t damn well being _torpedoed_ at every turn it would have been done with eight months ago, I have to at least _try_ to make that up where I can.”

“I do wonder whatever you and Thomas will find to bicker over once you get your way,” she muses, and the dig is softened by the fact she has no doubt that he _will_ get his way. “Maybe you could do us all a favor and bury the hatchet.”

Alex glances over in the direction he’s been studiously avoiding for the last hour, where Jefferson is holding court at the far end of the function room, smug and overly charming, big hand wrapped around a tiny champagne flute, too fucking tall and _too fucking purple_ , professionally-pressed pleats in place on a suit that Alex had wandered by his office and laughed his ass off at this morning until Jefferson had said _going for a sewer rat vibe for Angelica’s party, are you, how bold_ and Alex had snapped back _at least I don’t look like a fucking plum_.

It’s the truly extortionate pricetag and the hand-tailoring that makes it look even remotely good on him, Alex thinks viciously. Clothes like that would probably make _Adams_ look like a GQ model as well; because he’s not fucking blind, he has to admit that it _does_ look good, but he’s not attributing any of that to Jefferson, with his fucking showy smile - really, who’s fucking teeth are _that_ perfect - and his broad shoulders and hair loose and _just_ casual enough to contrast against the overbearing nature of his clothes and his posture; that almost commanding presence as he demands with everything but his words that everyone in the room fucking _look at him_ , and so really it’s no wonder Alex can’t _stop-_

Jefferson takes that exact moment to glance up in Alex’s vague direction, because of course he does, because Alex’s can’t catch a fucking break, and the bastard smirks like he thinks Alex was _looking_ at him, which, okay, maybe he fucking _was_ but only because he was trying to work out if his shoes are Cubans because if there was ever a man to boost his height with heeled boots it would be Thomas fucking Jefferson. He thinks defending himself with that fact might just look worse at this point though, so he forces himself not to cut his gaze away and owns it instead, cocks his head and throws Jefferson the finger across the room with a flat look that only seems to widen his smug, arrogant smile.

Alex sort of wants to punch it off his face and sort of wants that smirk aimed his way while the man forces him to his knees and makes him choke on dick.

Fifty fifty split, really.

“In his face?” Alex suggests innocently, still engaged in somewhat of a full-blown staring competition across the room.

“-maybe not then,” Angelica sighs. “You know, you could at least- oh, thank you Nigel-”

Alex blinks and turns back to her as she accepts yet another _congratulations, Angelica_ and a champagne flute from the guy; she’s miraculously misplaced the one Alex had given her not ten minutes ago and if she’s actually drinking these she’s going to be fucking _wrecked_ before they even take this thing to an after party, which he's looking forward to a damn sight more because at least he won’t get frowned at for only speaking to the people he likes.

“-pass on my congratulations to your lucky fiancé, as well,” Nigel says with a small smile, before offering a second glass to Alex with a _it’s bad luck to have an empty glass at a party, Alexander_ and Alex takes it, lets him swap for the empty one in his hand, a little wary, because this is not exactly the norm, but he’s not about to pass up hand-delivered free alcohol. By the time he remembers the staring contest that he’s definitely _lost_ and glances back, Jefferson’s already looked away, focused on something Madison is saying, though it can’t be party-appropriate conversation because he doesn’t even seem pleased with his win. In fact he looks incredibly irritated by whatever is being discussed.

“You’ll have to meet him, Nigel. He likes to fish too,” Angelica says warmly, and _fuck_ , she’s definitely drinking all these damn glasses of champagne, because her eyes twinkle when she adds, “Alex will have to bring you with him to our formal engagement party next month.”

He wants to stomp on her shiny, shiny shoe but that would be rude, and too obvious and so he smiles sharply at her instead, because she knows damn well that he’s really not all that interested in _Nigel_ , because _Nigel_ comes off like the most vanilla motherfucker in the entire damn state, like the kind of guy Alex can imagine taking someone on a date to churn their own goddamn vanilla ice cream, for fucks sake, and somebody stab Alex in the eye right now, he’s not going to her party with this guy-

“Well I appreciate that, Angelica, sounds lovely, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, that’s- that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says, but he’s glancing at _Alex_ , sheepish and flushed and rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, and Alex is almost offended because _excuse you_ , just because he's not interested doesn’t mean Nigel gets to reject him. Alex doesn’t _get_ rejected. “I, er. I accepted a job offer yesterday-”

Oh.

Well that’s just fucking great.

Alex is pissed off at his wasted effort for one whole minute as he listens to Angelica’s _you’re still more than welcome_ before he catches _out of the country_ and _Paris_ and _headhunted by Rochambeau_ and wait a fucking minute _what-_

“I’m sorry,” he says blankly. “Run that by me again, did you just say what I _think_ you just said?”

Nigel nods, grimacing as he says _surprised me out of nowhere but I couldn’t say no to an offer like that_ and he looks apologetic, like he maybe thinks Alex is annoyed that he’s moving away rather than what he is, which is completely fucking incredulous.

“Excuse me please,” he blurts out, as Angelica frowns at him. “I just remembered something incredibly important I have to do.”

Jefferson’s not where he was five minutes ago when Alex checks, in fact he’s not in the function room at all, which is all the better for Alex to be able to stalk out like a man on a mission, which he damn well _is_ , and by the time he almost runs into Jefferson heading back from the bathroom looking sullen and sulky Alex is so worked up he’s shaking with it, so much so that he doesn’t think twice about grabbing him by his stupidly-soft tie and all but dragging him into the nearest empty meeting room-

“Watch it Hamilton, I know you were dragged up but even the gutters teach _some_ manners, no?” Jefferson scoffs, though he follows without question, until Alex slams the door behind them and whirls to face him.

“Really, _really_. You’re gonna lecture me about manners? You know what’s fucking rude, _getting my best PR candidate shipped off to the ass end of the fucking globe just to be a prick_ ,” Alex spits, and Jefferson pauses for a second before his lips twitch and he looks suspiciously like he’s biting the inside of his mouth. God, Alex fucking _hates_ him, the utter _bastard_ -

“ _Whatever_ are you raving about now?” Jefferson asks, far too innocently, far too amused with himself, and it’s Alex’s turn to scoff.

“Don’t you fucking dare, you know damn well. I don’t know _how_ you did it, and I don’t fucking _care_ , but I _know you did_ , you interfering motherfuck-“

“You know, you really should get a handle on that terrible paranoia,” Jefferson hums, clearly thoroughly enjoying himself, and Alex almost laughs, feels it bubbling up in his chest, and he can’t tell whether that shaky tension in his hands is actually annoyance or sheer exhilaration at being outplayed, outmaneuvered so fucking _ridiculously_ with a stunt he’d probably have pulled himself another day, in another situation. He’s not really sure how much is anger and how much is an amplification of that kick he always gets when Jefferson meets him in an argument with an actual challenge; someone playing chess with him when everyone else in the damn room can’t get past checkers, even if he does hate that he’s lost this round, because that just means he needs to work _harder_ to win and _fuck_ , he doesn’t know what to do with that thrill buzzing in his veins except-

Jefferson’s mouth is weirdly soft on Alex’s when he uses the grip he still has on the guy’s stupid silky tie to pull him down and press their lips together, and it takes him a moment to catch up, a split second pause as he processes, because they don’t really do this, not properly since the first time, not unless there’s come involved because Jefferson’s _definitely_ got a thing for that, his ego so fucking unparalleled he probably can’t resist the idea of other people tasting like him too. They’re already both obviously on board and there are better places for Alex to put his lips so why the fuck _would_ they, except he’s rethinking that status quo right now, because once Jefferson gets his shit together his mouth is hot and wet and open against Alex’s, and his tongue is suddenly pushy and insistent as he brings his hand up to use Alex’s hair to angle his head exactly how he wants it; seamlessly takes over just like he always does and it’s _so good._

Jefferson might’ve hit him with a _really doesn’t take much, does it Hamilton_ two weeks ago after Alex had dropped to his knees after a particularly vicious email exchange, but it’s _he_ who doesn’t ever need convincing, ready to take the lead and fucking run with it the second Alex gives him any kind of green light. He almost wants to say something clever about it, or at least throw an insult out there but Jefferson’s other hand finds its way to the back of his shirt, pulls Alex hard into his body and leans forward into the kiss until he feels a little overwhelmed and towered over, which is stupid because he’s not _that fucking tall_. He’s distracted enough by it that it’s not until he stumbles that he realizes he’s being walked backward into the meeting room table, and then hoisted up _onto it_. He really _does_ have to say something after that, and he needs to pull back to breathe anyway, because it’s definitely the lack of oxygen making him dizzy and fuzzy and not the feel of strong hands around his thighs or being lifted around like he’s nothing or the sight of Jefferson slotting himself between Alex’s spread legs where Alex definitely hasn’t spent the week going mad imagining him since he’d said-

“Pretty fucking hypocritical of you to call me a psychopath the other day if you just send everybody you don’t like to another fucking country,” Alex spits, winces a little at how high his voice comes out and at how he can’t help but shudder at the way Jefferson’s hands feel really fucking big as they travel up the outsides of his thighs-

“I don’t _dislike_ him,” Jefferson shrugs, far too put together and effortless compared to how shaky Alex is feeling but at least he’s stopped fucking _denying_ it.

“That’s even worse,” Alex breathes, though he still can’t get much force behind it. “You can’t just banish people to Europe just because _I_ like them, you fucking-“

Alex fails to choke back his whine when Jefferson’s hands abruptly stop before they slide high enough to grip him by the ass and haul him in closer, press their hips tight together like he was obviously _about to_ and his dick twitches hard with the tease. He has to fist his hands in the guy’s jacket to keep from pressing himself into Jefferson and wrapping his legs around his waist because why the fuck has he _stopped-_

“Do- I didn’t-” Jefferson takes a breath, and then; “ _Do_ you like him?” he says roughly into Alex’s neck, mouth moving over the skin he’s just been worrying between his teeth, suddenly a little wooden against Alex and he frowns through a fog of confusion and arousal as he tries to make his brain work.

“Postgrad education, experience, zero black marks, would agree with me about fuckin' _anything_ , what the hell _isn’t_ there for me to like in a PR director, why the _fuck_ are we talking abo-“

“Not for the _job_ Hamilton, for fuck’s-” Jefferson huffs a little hoarsely and pulls back to look at him, shakes his head. “Never mind, Christ. You know what, fuck, it doesn’t even matter-“ Alex is about to argue, opens his mouth to, but Jefferson puts his lips back there again, bites at Alex’s as he pushes in closer, pulls Alex’s legs around him and Alex can’t help the shudder, or the whimper, or the way he lets his mouth and his _whole fucking body_ fall open and willing-

“Want it already don’t you,” Jefferson mutters, and Alex isn’t actually sure if he’s meant to have heard it but he bites down a whine and a _please_ all the same and Jefferson grips his chin hard, forces him to look up. “That door isn’t even locked you know.”

That really shouldn’t get to Alex so much, the idea that the entire fucking staff is a few minutes walk away from stumbling on Alex about to lay himself face down over a conference room table but it does, and his breath hitches wobbly and unsteady in his throat around a horrible little noise and his face feels far too hot with Jefferson staring so damn intently at him.

“This is really not what I had in mind,” Jefferson continues, tone and expression becoming reproachful, like this escalation is Alex’s fault which, sidenote, is fucking _unfair_ , because it’s not like he was the driving force behind _any_ of it.

“Then just fuckin’ _improvise_ ,” he retorts, voice tight and Jefferson tuts.

“That’s not up to you,” he says reprovingly, as he puts a few inches between them. “-and _I_ think this is neither the time nor the place.” Alex blinks, confused at his sudden smug smile, because he’s _not about to-_

“You can’t be serious-”

“Patience is a virtue, Hamilton,” Jefferson hums and steps back another inch, but cups Alex’s dick maddeningly loosely through his pants and smiles slightly when Alex hisses and his hips reflexively stutter forward. “-and you could probably do with at least _one_ of those, hm? Let’s see if we can teach you.”

“Fuck you,” Alex snaps, though it’s embarrassingly whiny. Jefferson moves to tug hard on his hair and he doesn’t know if he’s being punished or rewarded but the effect is the same regardless; arching into it and spreading his legs wider, eyes closing on a moan and jerking helplessly into the hand cupping his crotch, gasps; “I can’t-”

“You _can_. And you’re going to _be good and wait._ ” Jefferson all-but orders him, calm and steady and nonchalant but there’s an undercurrent of something there in his tone that has Alex shivering and straining against his palm, which he’s still not fucking _moved_ , keeps letting Alex grind up into it because he’s a sadistic fuck who wants to see Alex riled up and desperate and pleading even though he’s not going to follow through-

He can fuck off though, Alex won’t let those words go, not now, because it’s clear Jefferson isn’t going to give him what he wants, even if he asks, even if he does cough up what wants to come out; _please, please, fuck, please just touch me, please_ because he’s already halfway out of the room, four long strides and he’s gone, with a _sort your hair out, Hamilton_ , thrown casually over his shoulder like he thinks Alex is just going to wander back out to the party right after him, with a raging hard on, his breathing this ragged, looking like he’s been fucking mauled. He has to put his head between his knees for a few seconds to steady his swimming vision that seems to have finally submitted to the three glasses of champagne he’s drunk in the last forty-five minutes and it takes a good twenty more before he’s confident enough to rejoin the party.

What the actual fuck.

Alex absolutely avoids setting eyes on the corner of the room with too much magenta in it for the rest of the evening; smiles around gritted teeth as Angelica gives him a funny look, as he gets drawn into one conversation and then another, as Washington asks him to help Burr look over some contract next week, even though Burr is stood _right there_ glaring at their boss’s back because he’s the head of his whole damn department and doesn’t need Alex’s help. It’s always been like that, though, and Alex would prefer to check them over himself anyway so he nods and lets himself be distracted and tries not to tap his feet too repetetively all the way through polite chit-chat, all the way until Angelica finally leads the way to a bar around the corner for the few with nothing better to do than continue the party somewhere they sadly have to pay for their own drinks, all the way until he can pull his tie off and collapse at a table with John and breathe a little easier.

Fcuking _wait?_

Alex has never been good at _waiting;_ his impatience a bubbling thing that burns in his chest and his veins until he can’t sit down on any given day anyway, let alone like _t_ _his_ , restlessness and tension and anticipation building in his fingers and his toes and between his legs until everyone must surely be able to see that he’s been mostly-hard and sticky wet for the past four fucking hours, because Alex doesn’t fucking _wait for it_ , because people are always keen to give him what he wants without asking, because Jefferson _left him-_

Fuck this.

Alex gets what he wants. Alex isn’t going to _wait_ and he damn well isn’t going to break and _ask_ for it either. He’s Alexander fucking Hamilton, he’s never in his life begged a man to take him to bed, no matter how he feels about being made to do it once he gets there, and he’s not about to start for _Thomas Jefferson_. The only thing that remains is _Jefferson_ breaking. Jefferson, who Alex knows how to snap like a twig. Jefferson, who pitches his toys from the pram the second Alex _meddles_ with his projects because he _had a plan_ and he just hates to see those careful, detailed plans derailed and will _lose his fucking shit_ if things don’t go the way he wants-

_This is really not what I had in mind._

Well. Okay then.

* * *

_[Jeffershit] -_ Hamilton that man has an actual topknot, what are you doing  
 _[A.Ham] -_ He owns his own business. It’s very impressive  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ He’s a fucking hippie  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ I bet his own business is an MLM scheme  
 _[A.Ham] -_ So judgmental  
 _[A.Ham] -_ I wear my hair like that sometimes you prick  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Yes and it looks ridiculous on you too  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ You just know he does it ironically  
 _[A.Ham] -_ You have some kind of personal vendetta against irony, huh  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ I bet he doesn’t even vote because they’re all as bad as each other  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Now you’re just being stupid  
-  
-  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Told you so  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Did you just yell "societally irresponsible"  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Sick burn. Sure he felt that one

* * *

“What did you do to Jefferson _now_ ,” Peggy frowns at him as they wait for their drinks and peers over his shoulder across the crowded bar. “Why is he glaring at you?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Alex shrugs innocently. “He’s always glaring at me.”

Peggy _hmm’s_ and then nods in agreement as the bartender slides their glasses over, but before Alex can reach into his pocket a card is handed over the bar and a guy wearing light jeans with a too-dark button-down and hair longer than Alex’s says _I’ve got these_.

He gives Alex an obvious once-over and Peggy snorts _‘kay thanks, bye homo_ and pulls Alex’s ponytail playfully before wandering off. Alex beams and throws out a hand.

“Generous of you. I’m Alex-”

* * *

_[Jeffershit] -_ You’re wasting your time there too  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Your running commentary on my conversation partners is wasting my time  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Obviously riveting conversation then  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Maybe I’m not aiming for conversation  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Hamilton, the man clearly can’t even choose a shirt properly, let alone make you forget your own name  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Who said I wanted to forget my name?  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ I would want to forget myself if I were you  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Oh fuck you  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Yes, we both know you’re going to  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Stop insulting yourself by pretending otherwise  
 _[A.Ham] -_ *Whatever* are you raving about now?

* * *

“So are you going to tell me about Jefferson, or am I just supposed to pretend it’s not happening?” John demands, annoyed and scowling, forty-five minutes later and out of abso-fucking-lutely nowhere. Alex chokes abruptly, narrowly avoids a spit-take and tries to look innocent while hacking up a lung, because has it been _that_ obvious? He’s not looked over there in at least an hour and he’s not even _spoken_ to anyone else since _Eric_ -

"Erm - _cough_ \- I’m - _cough_ \- Wha-?” _Great job_. John looks severely unimpressed. “I don’t know-”

“-Alexander I love you dearly, but you’re a fucking terrible liar and we both know it. Don’t insult me. Just-a-thing, _vampire_ guy is _Jefferson_.”

Oh.

Shit.

_Shit_.

“How did you-”

“I may not be _you_ , but I’m not a complete idiot,” John says, waving the bottle in his hand, expressive as always, and Alex braces for a rant. “You’re weird around each other lately. You had _two_ actual conversations last week. Without yelling. This morning he used ‘to’ instead of ‘too’ in a slide and you just sat there _and said nothing._ Three people asked me if you were sick afterward. _Three_. Including Washington.”

Alex makes a horrified noise in the back of his throat and tries not to panic. John steamrollers on, puffing up his chest in a way that Alex recognizes as prefacing his most solid point, and he glares at that, because it’s familiar and he’s pretty sure John’s picked that up from _him_ at some point over the years.

“Also, sometime since breakfast and the party earlier you managed to collect _another_ of the world’s biggest fucking hickeys - _which by the way is obscene, you are a grown adult for fuck’s sake_ \- therefore someone we work with was responsible. Fucking _Nigel_ looks like he’d rather moisturize you than bruise you and seeing as I know how fucking _boring_ you find most everyone in that building, other candidates are pretty slim. Desire to stab him in the neck aside, Jefferson is about the only available option that doesn’t dull you to tears. Plus he seems _exactly_ like the horribly overbearing, possessive, _leave-my-mark_ type-”

“Maybe I fucked Burr?” Alex counters lamely, because he really doesn’t need to hear what John thinks Jefferson fucks like right now, not having been tensed and edgy and turned on for what feels like literally fucking _years_ at this point-

“He fucking wishes-”

“You think?” Maybe distraction?

“Lex, you’d never fuck Burr.” No dice, and true enough. Alex huffs in agreement.

“Of course I wouldn’t, how the fuck would you know he was even enjoying it? He’s so fucking non-committal. He’s probably all missionary, lights-off-so-you-can’t-see-my-expression anyway. He’d be halfway up my fucking ass and still be like _well I suppose this is suitably satisfactory, Alexander but if you could talk a little less please, I get off on the sounds of my own dithering indecision_ -” John snorts reluctantly at his stellar impression, grin breaking through the irritated sternness for a moment and Alex takes the moment to try pulling puppy-eyes at him. “-can we go back to the part where I had the chance to choose _you’re just supposed to pretend it’s not happening_ as an option and go with that?”

“I lied, that was never an option,” John says shortly, and his eyes narrow. “Just- Whatever you’re doing Alex, it’s a fucking terrible idea.” Alex pouts and drops his forehead to the table.

“Ugh. I _know_ , okay.”

“Then _why_.”

“-because it’s _really fucking hot,_ alright?” He looks up at John, pleading for sympathy and unsurprisingly finds very little. “He’s an arrogant, stuck up dick. He’s always _been_ a stuck up dick. I’m well aware. But if I can find a way to… _de-stress_ that happens to involve blowing my fucking mind every so often, then _why the fuck not?_ It’s just a thing. It’ll be fun, and then it’ll be done. And he’ll _still_ be an arrogant, stuck up dick afterward. There’s nothing to worry about, okay? I swear.”

John stares at him for a very long time, one of those intense ones that makes Alex think he’s supposed to be doing or saying something, but he doesn’t know what and so he doesn’t, until John nods to himself, seemingly reassured.

“Fine. Fine. _Whatever_. When you regain your sanity and jump off a bridge in humiliation I’m putting _why the fuck not_ on your goddamn grave, just so you know.” He shoots Alex a flat glare. “We still hate him, right?”

“Obviously,” Alex scoffs.

“Good,” John frowns. “Don’t you dare stab me in the back like that. Hating on Jefferson is our _thing_. If we don’t have that, what the fuck do we have in common to fall back on?”

“A decade of codependency?” Alex suggests with an innocent shrug.

“Oh shut up. You owe me a drink for all the stress you just put on my poor nerves,” John grumbles. “And stop sexting him, I don’t need to see that shit. Keep it to yourself, I already want to hurl.”

Alex looks at him, askance and frowns in objection, partway through pulling out his wallet.

“Don’t pull that face, I didn’t see anything, but you’ve touched that hickey every time your phone’s gone off tonight, and remember, moron, I do know exactly what you look like horny as fuck.”

* * *

_[A.Ham] -_ I don’t want to do this anymore  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Are yo  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Is  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ What  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Apparently you used the wrong ‘to’ in a slide today and I missed it. People noticed  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ For fucks sake Hamilton I thought you were serious  
 _[A.Ham] -_ I am serious. Incorrect grammar is a massive turn off  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Missing an opportunity to correct you is also a massive turn off. I have a reputation to uphold  
 _[A.Ham] -_ I can’t have people thinking I’m letting you off with shitty grammar. This is a disaster  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ If I swear to repeat it next week so that you can publicly correct me will you shut the fuck up and forget about it  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Swear *too repeat it  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ oh fuck off

* * *

When Lafayette and Hercules show up to meet them Alex shoots John a warning glare. Hercules is typically patiently accepting of Alex’s many questionable life choice, but Laf, well. Being friends with both he and Jefferson somehow - _vous êtes à la fois des idiots aveugles et stupides and I will not tolerate it in my presence_ \- and being the most interfering person _alive_ meant Laf would most certainly have an opinion that Alex is not really interested in being subjected to right now. His friend means well but can’t help getting involved in everything and-

What if Jefferson ended up hearing that Alex had said _blowing my fucking mind_.

He’d never live it down. He doesn’t think anyone else will understand that _Alex_ , at least, is capable of recognizing and appreciating a good orgasm completely independently of the terrible human being it comes attached to; he’s well aware that it means absolutely fuck all that he’s come harder with Jefferson’s dick in his mouth than at least the last few fucks he’s had. Maybe it’s just _because_ the last few fucks he’s had have been lacking. Maybe it’s a desperation thing. Maybe a marginally decent traffic cone would be great to rub off on at this point, nothing to actually do with _Jefferson_ -

Luckily when the two of them arrive they’re accompanied by Eliza, which has the double benefit of both luring Angelica and Peggy over from wherever they’d been to greet her and also completely distracting John, who makes a dive for the bar in a move so fucking awkward Alex can only assume he’s still not talked to her. Realistically John probably doesn’t need any more alcohol or to continue to ignore the situation but who the fuck is Alex to judge him if that’s what he wants to do, and so while John’s gone he distracts Eliza until she doesn’t look so concerned, until her hands aren’t twisting in her skirt, until when John returns they can at least act like normal people at each other and John comes back with a glass for Alex in gratitude, so he thinks he’s at least partially forgiven for his Jefferson-shaped transgressions.

Which is good. Because an hour or so later he’s pretty sure he’s about to make another one and he can’t bring himself to give a single fuck about it.

It’s close to midnight and he’s sat at the bar being hit on by a decent-looking guy with a lip piercing that in another life, on another night, Alex might have been mighty interested in licking but as it is he doesn’t even really notice at first until the guy leans over and introduces himself. Alex takes his drink from the bartender, looks over at half his friends dancing and the other half distracted into a game of pool and thinks, _fuck it, you know what, yeah, I’m done here_ and wonders just how quickly he can make this happen, grabs a straw from the pot on the bar and fiddles with it between his fingers for a moment while they talk before tapping it against his lip, going for absent-minded innocence as it finds it’s way into his mouth. 

Lip-piercing’s eyes follow the movement, because of course they do, because Alex’s mouth never fails him in this and his phone buzzes against his thigh, the vibration and the warning fizzing up his spine and straight to his dick and he smiles.

He resolutely ignores it this time instead of responding, even when it buzzes again ten minutes later, when the guy steps closer and Alex goes in for the kill, spreads his knees a little - _or a lot_ \- wider around the stool, feels heat burn in his gut with each pulse of it in his pocket, aware but ultimately unbothered by how fucked up it is that he’s getting off purely on the idea of playing this up to piss Jefferson off, to counterbalance and stick a middle finger up at the entitlement in being told to _wait,_ in the lazy arrogance in how he’d said _next time you need it it’s gonna be me_ like there wasn’t even a fucking _question_ there. He should probably feel guilty that the arousal surely evident on his face is entirely unrelated to the stranger it’s pointed at, but he doesn’t, because it’s _too fucking good_. The guy could be a goddamn streetlight for all Alex cares about his actual personage, because this shit hits all his triggers so fucking hard; his usual pushing and needling at Jefferson’s temper, spoiling for a reaction, coupled with that underlying hankering for a punishment that he’s been blindly reaching for all evening, since that tone of Jefferson’s voice as he’d said _be good and wait_ , a red rag to a bull of _grab me_ or _bruise me up_ or _put me over your knee, I dare you_ and the way he thinks Jefferson might enjoy that just as much as Alex makes it even _better_ , and-

The pointed, overly-loud clearing of a throat comes a few moments later in the conversation, just as lip-piercing steps right up into his space, slotting neatly between his legs, and just the sound of it makes the skin on the back of his neck prickle with anticipation and his fingers clench in the fabric of his pants. The stranger takes a half step back, and then another after a second glance, reevaluating, a confused _er, what-_ on his tongue. Alex glances back over his shoulder, breezy and innocent to see Jefferson leaning on his elbow on the bar behind him, fingers drumming passive-aggressively on the wood though the sound is almost totally obscured by the noise so he’s surely doing it just to be fucking obnoxious. His long, toned body isn’t as stiff as it normally is, has lost the rigidity Alex had seen in it not that many hours ago at the office, alcohol and annoyance twisting his posture into something almost predatory and he raises an eyebrow. _Are you having fun?_

Alex grins, bright, feeling triumphant and heady and hard. _I win._

“ _Thomas_ ,” he says sweetly, gesturing, “This is my friend Paul-“

“-er Peter,” the guy corrects awkwardly, and Alex sort of wonders why the fuck he’s still here. Can he not feel how utterly irrelevant he is already? The thin, irritated line of Jefferson’s mouth twitches in spite of himself and the game they’re playing, and Alex has to dig his teeth into his bottom lip to stop the laughter.

“Hello Percy,” Jefferson says, eyes narrowed and never leaving Alex’s. “ _Alexander_. Our Uber is almost here.”

“Oh _darn_ ,” Alex sighs, with the tone of someone asking _how’s the weather_ and turns back to Philip. “I suppose I have to go.”

The guy frowns at him. “Look, you might’ve said you had a boyf-“

“I don’t-”

“He doesn’t-”

He and Jefferson speak at the same time. For once in complete agreement, Alex thinks, that _that_ singularly moronic suggestion shouldn’t be allowed to be spoken fully into the world.

Alex’s new friend looks between them, really fucking confused for a second.

“ _Right_ -”

“Nice to meet you, Patrick. Have a good night,” Jefferson intones, flat and dismissive and careless as the guy blinks and backs away and Alex can feel Jefferson’s gaze burning into the side of his head as Alex watches him go. It’s not until Alex turns back that Jefferson pushes his half-empty glass toward him.

“Hurry up. I want to get the fuck out of here before anyone we know sees me and realizes how low I’ve let my standards get.”

Alex spits out _oh get hit by a fuckin train, would you_ at his retreating back but chucks down his drink, gives it five minutes for the sake of appearances and then grabs his coat, anyway.

* * *

_[Jeffershit] -_ you should make it even more obvious that you’re playing him, I think he’s the only one here that doesn’t know  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ If you think I give a single fuck  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ I swear to god if you don’t close your legs  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ You little bastard  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ [message deleted]

* * *

_[Jack] -_ either you’ve gotten yourself abducted or you’ve snuck off to fuck Jefferson  
 _[Jack] -_ I don’t know which is worse tbh  
 _[A.Ham] -_ I plead the fifth  
 _[Jack] -_ are you sure you know what you’re doing  
 _[A.Ham] -_ No  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Yes  
 _[Jack] -_ seems accurate  
 _[Jack] -_ make better choices plz  
 _[A.Ham] -_ How about you talk to Bets & then get back to me  
 _[Jack] -_ fucking ouch

* * *

“-don’t even give a shit who it’s _for_ , it’s your goddamn _responsibility_ as a citizen to exercise your right to vote, for fuck’s sake. What the _actual_ flying fuck is the point of a democracy-”

“For _Christ’_ sake Hamilton-” Jefferson snaps as he elbows his apartment door open and shoves Alex bodily inside. Alex catches sight of too many smooth, clean, bare lines and far too much fucking shiny chrome while Jefferson flicks a light on and dims it some before he’s yanked back by the collar and pressed into the wall beside the couch, heavy hands at his shoulders and Jefferson looks almost imploringly down at him, like he sort of regrets mentioning Alex’s new least-favorite-person Greg in the car on the way over here. “-just _shut the fuck up_. I _know_. I even agree. You really don’t need to tell me, _again_. I _vote_ -”

“You vote _wrong_ -” Alex says, even as his voice wobbles with expectation, because he can’t not throw that out there.

“Why the fuck do _you_ get to decide that, you judgmental little dick,” Jefferson scowls. “-and you literally just said you don’t give a shit who it’s for-”

“Yeah well I lied. First you gotta get people to _do_ the thing before you can start telling them to do it how you want it-”

“God, please let that be a fucking segue,” Jefferson growls, and Alex snorts a surprisingly genuine laugh that must be alcohol-related. He knows he’s leaning towards dangerously uninhibited, but _fuck it_ , he thinks he probably needs it to keep his shit together when Jefferson just straight-up shoves his thigh right up against Alex’s dick and covers his mouth with his own, and _yeah okay_ , this was the entire fucking point so there doesn’t need to be any preamble, and he’s been ready for it since about three this afternoon, and so he’s not sure why he’s caught off guard by the slick press of lips on his, of tongue on his, but he is. Maybe because it’s weirdly slow; deep and thorough and methodical like Jefferson’s fucking _cataloging_ him and it’s odd, because they don't ever really get to be _slow_ , and so he blinks stupidly a few times when Jefferson pulls back to consider him carefully, head cocked and says _speaking of how you want it._

“Pretty sure someone ran their fucking mouth about eating me until I cried, don’t see you backing that up yet, do I-”

Jefferson’s hands close around his wrists and press them back into the wall when he goes to grab the guy’s collar, and he raises one severely unimpressed eyebrow that makes Alex’s stomach flip and quiver. “You think you deserve something like _that_ after the way you just behaved?”

Alex’s breath catches, embarrassingly loudly in the quiet, really, and then even worse, it breaks on a quiet whimper and he feels his whole fucking body twitch with his obvious interest, because _that sounds even better_ , and it must be all Jefferson needs as an affirmation because he presses his thigh tighter against Alex and even in the dim light his eyes are close enough for Alex to see them dark and eager and his voice comes out low and rough and quiet. “Safeword. Pick one.”

Alex flexes his wrists in Jefferson’s grip, presses off the wall for a second just to feel the rumbling, displeased noise he makes, just to feel the hard, muscled body against his pinning him back down, just to try and get a little attention down low where he needs it, _just to waste time_ , really, to cover for how ready he is for the question, because he is. Though it’s not like he’d gotten ridiculously hard picking out the perfect word or anything. Not like he’d spent long thinking about it, because _that_ would mean he’d put more thought into this than just very briefly jerking off to the fantasy of how it might go down, which he absolutely _hasn’t_ -

“ _Defrenestrate-_ ”

Jefferson’s surprised huff of laughter curls in his gut and fans across his face as he looks curiously down at Alex, who basks a moment in that warm, familiar satisfaction he always gets when his words perfectly hit their mark. “Poetic. I didn’t peg you for sentimental.”

“It’s not everyday someone threatens to throw you out of a window,” Alex says flatly, and ducks forward to press open lips against warm skin, because he’s damned if he’s going to be the only one to come out of this with bruises, and he already knows that he _will_. “That sort of shit tends to stick with you.”

“I find it incredibly hard to believe that no one had ever said that to you before then,” Jefferson retorts, slightly stilted as Alex grazes teeth along the skin he’s just abused, but seems content to hold him pinned there and let Alex at his neck for now.

“Not within two hours of meeting me, they hadn’t,” Alex mumbles, distracted.

“I must admit, the solid twenty minute lecture thereafter on how _there was a perfectly good word for that_ and how _if I was going to threaten you, at least do it properly_ didn’t dissuade me of the notion.”

“I was sort of hoping you’d try it so that I could get you fired before you even really started. I wouldn’t even have needed to _buy_ that wine,” Alex whispers, soft against him, quiet like a secret, teasing, dragging his tongue up skin that tastes like sweat and bar and booze. Jefferson scoffs against his temple, grinds against Alex until he sees stars at the sudden intense pressure on his desperate cock, the cool dampness of his underwear pressed into his skin, and he tips his head back against the wall with a shaky moan.

“I’m insulted you thought it would be that easy to snap me,” Jefferson murmurs after a moment.

“Isn’t it?” Alex breathes, goading even as his head spins and his legs wobble, because pushing at Jefferson is just what he _does_. “Certainly seemed pretty easy earlier-”

Jefferson lets go of a wrist to tangle his hand in Alex’s hair and tugs _hard_ but deliberately steps back far enough that Alex’s hips press forward into nothing and he has to force himself not to continue to strain toward him pathetically as he whines and-

“You really wanna talk about the stunt you pulled back there?” he asks, and Alex shudders at his tone, at the promise behind it, because _yes_ , he really fucking _does_ want to, because he’s been hard for fucking _hours_ , because his underwear is fucking _ruined_ , because it’s what he’s been spoiling for all damn night; Jefferson snapping and taking it out on Alex’s ass, because he’s tipsy and desperate enough to not give a single flying fuck about his dignity, to not give a shit about how easily he acquiesces and obeys when Jefferson eyes flash hot and keen, when he demands Alex’s pants down, yanks him hard face-down over the couch and across his lap and _fuck, fuck, fuck-_

“ _Stop squirming,_ ” Jefferson commands, pulls his head back by the hair until Alex can _feel_ it in his fucking balls and he really _tries_ to, muscles trembling and shaking with the effort not to rub against him but he can’t quite manage it because he’s so fucking _ready-_

“ _Jesus_ Hamilton-” he drawls, runs a steady hand down Alex’s back. “-anyone would think you _want_ me to hit you.”

Alex can _hear_ the smug satisfaction, the tease lacing his voice, because _obviously_ , because Jefferson knows damn well that that’s what Alex _does_ , push him until he snaps and gives Alex what he wants-

He abruptly wonders whether, in actuality, he’d acted _exactly_ as Jefferson had expected him to at being told to _wait_ , whether Alex has given him what _he_ wanted, whether Alex has actually won anything at all, and he’s so damn busy trying to figure out who the _victor_ is here that he’s entirely unprepared for the blow when it lands, stinging and sudden and sharp and _fucking hard_ across the back of his bare thigh, makes him yelp and flinch as the sensation echoes and ricochets through his body, makes his legs twist and his toes curl and his face heat up in shame and pleasure where he buries it in the couch so Jefferson can’t hear the too-needy whimper and the mumble of _yes, yes-_ that works free of him when he hits the _same spot again_ , just because Alex wasn’t expecting that either, just to double down on it, _two._ He thinks Jefferson must hear him anyway because he mutters _fuck, Hamilton_ , and rubs his hand over Alex’s skin, and it feels hot and raw and burns sweetly when he squeezes there before Alex hears him swallow.

“Don’t know why I’m even humoring this bullshit from you. I oughta’ just send you home right now-” he grunts, rough, like the idea sort of hurts his throat on the way out, presses down on the center of Alex's back and deals him another two, this time cupped around the meat of his ass, either cheek, _three, four,_ and _shit_ he’s so fucking glad Jefferson doesn’t hold back, leaves him open mouthed and panting and his hands grasping desperately at the couch, leaves his hips unable to decide whether they want to push forward into Jefferson's leg or back into the blows, leaves him whining when he can’t spread his legs wider, trapped in the confines of his pants bunched around his knees. “-as if you think you deserve _anything_ , fucking around like that, just because you can’t damn well _wait_ -”

Alex feels him smooth a hand up his spine, overheated and damp, bleeding warmth through his shirt where it comes to rest between his shoulderblades before he breathes a familiar _alright?_ and Alex is reluctantly grateful for the check because poetic or not he doesn’t think he could actually wrap his tongue around _defrenestrate_ right now even if he wanted to, which he _really fucking doesn’t._

“God _yes_ ,” he grits out between his teeth and hears Jefferson bite down on a groan.

“Ten gonna be enough for you to learn some _patience?”_ he asks, and Alex nods quickly, even though that’s _never_ gonna fucking happen, Jefferson may as well just go until he's numb, but he wants another so damn badly, pressure coiling thick in his legs and low in his belly already-

“So much nicer like this, aren’t you,” Jefferson says idly, and the crack of his palm, _five_ , echoes so fucking loud in the room but it doesn't seem as loud as Alex’s choked-down sob, or the broken moan that follows, or the sound of ragged breathing. “Would have fucking done this weeks ago if I’d known you’d be so goddamn _eager_ for it, _Jesus_ \- that’s what fucking happens when you don’t _use your damn words and just tell me what you want_ , Hamilton. Christ, why the fuck is this is the only time you haven’t got the balls to _run your fucking mouth_ -”

“ _Fuck you-_ ” Alex spits, because he can’t _not_ argue with that, even if that's all he can manage to say, and he cries out when Jefferson lands another smack, _six_ , and then cries out again when the guy pulls his hair and grips his sore ass hard.

“You know,” Jefferson huffs. “- _because of that rude interruption, Director Hamilton, I can’t remember where I was, I’ll have to start over-_ ” and when he delivers the next blow he starts at _one_ and Alex dissolves into almost-hysterical, incredulous laughter at his own epithet being slung back at him just because Jefferson’s such a fucking _petty motherfucker_ but he willingly nods his enthusiasm and actually maybe he’s crying, not laughing; there are hitched breaths and tears on his face and he’s not completely sure. Either way, by the time Jefferson’s worked him through them, by the time Alex is gloriously aching and on fire inside and out, he’s _definitely_ crying, sobbing brokenly into the couch and offering himself up into each one, his ass and his head and his balls all throbbing and overwhelmed and for once Jefferson doesn’t appear to be all that bothered about Alex messing up his clothes because his cock is heavy and painful and leaking between them and has to be ruining Jefferson's stupid expensive pants. All Jefferson seems to want to do about it, though, is run his hand over Alex’s sore ass and rub his fingers between his cheeks just to watch him writhe and rub up against his leg some more while something crinkles and when the next pass of his fingers is _finally_ wet and cool and sticky Alex pushes keenly back into it because _oh fuck yes, yes, please for the love of God just put something inside him already he needs to come or he’s going to die, sweet Jesus-_

“ _Good boy_ ,” Jefferson purrs, low and rough and super fucking self-satisfied, and Alex shudders as a gentle hand strokes the hair out of his sweaty face. “That was what you needed, wasn't it. See how much easier everything is when you just tell me what you want, hm?”

It takes so fucking long for the words to sink through the haze that by the time Alex realizes he must have spoken aloud there’s a long, slick finger pressing into him and he groans, strains back into it and struggles against his trapped legs again, loses himself in the steady drag of it inside him until there’s two, until they’re scissoring and spreading him open, until there’s a third pressing at him and he has to open and close his mouth a few times before he can get it to move the way he wants-

“Fuck, please, _please_ just- I’m good, I swear, I _swear_ , please-”

Jefferson swears and the fingers are gone and Alex can’t help but keen at the sudden loss, even as he knows it’s going to get better, even as his gut clenches in anticipation, even as Jefferson pulls him half off the couch in his attempt to get himself out from under Alex, face as wrecked as Alex feels, to drag Alex’s pants and shirt fully off until he’s on his knees on the floor buried face-first in Jefferson’s sofa. Alex sighs in relief, can finally stretch properly, spread his legs wide and arch his back, ass in the air, because he _knows_ he looks good like that and hears Jefferson groan behind him and for a second he’s cold and his head spins and he’s so fucking _empty_ until those two fingers push back into him and he whines _fuck, no, come on_ , frustrated, pushes back into them anyway, because it’s _so good_ and yet _not enough._

A warm chest presses against his back as Jefferson leans over him, damp and hard and Alex sort of wants to turn around because he' s not ashamed to admit that he wants a full uninterrupted HD image of that ridiculously toned body to jerk off to for the next six years of his life at least, but even as he thinks it Jefferson's third finger presses at his rim again and he gets distracted trying to growl his displeasure and impatience but it comes out stilted and hitched and horrible as it slides inside too. Jefferson doesn’t mock him, though, just makes an needy, impatient little noise of his own into Alex’s ear.

“Still so fucking _tight_ , doll-”

“ _I want to feel you for a fucking week,_ ” Alex sobs into the couch, because _fine_ , if the asshole wants to hear what Alex _wants_ -

Jefferson bites the back of his neck but follows it with the press of his lips there too and Alex gasps for air he can’t seem to find as those fingers are pulled free and a packet rustles before the slick, blunt head of him rubs along Alex's ass, again and again until he hitches a breathless _please_ , pushes inside just a fraction, barely breaching, just holding him open. He doesn’t know if Jefferson is trying to give him time to adjust or trying to fucking _torture_ him but it feels like the latter, as hands grip his hips so tight they hurt, stop him from pushing back and taking it in and the frustrated tears come too easily, shaking, sweaty hands scrabbling at the couch as his mouth runs away from him, sobbing promises and curses and _please, please, fucking Christ just fuck me, I need you to- god, I need it, please-_

“I know you do, baby, I know-” gets muttered somewhere into Alex's back, soothing even as his voice is strained and the hand that runs up and down Alex’s side presumably to steady him isn’t very steady itself. “-I know what you need. I got it, I'm gonna-”

Jefferson pulls them both backward until he’s sat back on his knees with Alex in his lap, back to his chest, sliding down onto him, that burning push _agonizing_ in how fucking _slow_ it is, until Alex is fucking _done;_ lets his knees give out and crashes down with a yelp as his sore ass meets Jefferson’s thighs and Jefferson lets out a sharp sound like a wounded animal, scrabbles at his hips as Alex heaves out shocky, pained breaths and tips his head back, eyes closed, feels Jefferson's curls tickling his temple, revels in it because it’s _so good-_

“Fuck, _fuck_ , Hamilton. You can’t just- _shit_. Are you alright?”

Alex whines out a _fuck yes_ as Jefferson lifts him slightly, shaky fingers tracing around where he’s buried in Alex as he pulls him up and back down onto him, slow, testing, _teasing_ , and his voice comes out a little wild and higher pitched, pressed into the damp skin behind Alex’s ear;

“Fuck. _Fuck_. Look at you stretched around me- so fucking _tight_. You love it, don’t you, fucking _love it_ -”

Alex arches his back and shudders when Jefferson lifts him again, strong hands pulling him back down with more and more force until he’s bouncing in Jefferson’s lap and his mouth goes a little slack at how fucking _much_ of it there feels like, and he’s never been a size queen but every time he’d almost choked around it he’d _known_ it would be good, if it ever happened, that it would stretch and fill him until he could almost _taste_ it, but having it proven is something else entirely. He steadies his trembling knees under himself, legs spread either side of Jefferson’s and puts the last vestiges of his energy into fucking himself down, finding _that_ angle and grinding into it with a twist and a roll each time Jefferson bottoms out and _shit yes, there, right there, right there_. Jefferson groans into the back of his neck, one hand leaving Alex’s hip to tangle in his hair, pulling until Alex's neck is bared close to his mouth, until Alex bucks and whimpers and curses around a hitched breath-

“I knew it,” Jefferson mutters against Alex’s skin, and he can _feel_ the words rumbling through him as much as hear them. “Knew you’d feel good, take it _so fucking good._ Knew you’d be greedy for it, just like you’re so damn desperate to choke on me. Know that’s what you need, coming at me full of attitude when all you really want is my cock, any way you can get it-”

Alex can’t even argue, because if _this_ is what it’s like he’ll damn straight be reorganizing his list of _things that will calm me down_ and putting Jefferson’s stupid, ridiculously sized magic dick first, second _and_ third. They've not even fucking finished yet and he already knows he'd be down to do this again. _Fuck_. He stutters and loses his rhythm, suddenly thinking about being stressed at work; Jefferson bending him over his desk and just sliding into him in the office, hand over his mouth and _oh fuck-_

Jefferson steamrollers over his stumble, forces him forward until he’s half shoved into the couch, one hand on the back of his neck holding him down, thrusts turning vicious and brutal and _hard_ and they come with a thrill of pain every time Jefferson presses up against the burning skin of his backside. He nudges Alex’s knees out, spreads him open even _wider_ and the next snap of his hips buries him so deep that Alex’s vision whites out for a second, static in his ears and rhythmic, breathless moans punched out of him every time Jefferson’s cock slams in like there isn’t enough room inside him for it _and_ the noise. One more adjustment; a slight tilting of Alex’s hips and he’s begging again _oh fucking god yes, that’s it, fuck, please, please, please, don’t stop, don’t stop_ and he mercifully doesn’t, stays the course and nails that spot again and again and _again-_

“You gonna come like this?” Jefferson grunts somewhere around his shoulder, as Alex shakes under him, hoarse and strained and fuck, _yes, yes he is._ “Gonna come on my cock, aren’t you, just like that, _god_ -”

It feels a little bit like Alex’s entire body seizes; sparks in his fingertips and toes and behind his eyeballs and buzzing in his brain and a little bit like his whole fucking pelvis is a flayed nerve that he’s wrung dry and forced out through his dick like squeezing out a goddamn sponge and _oh my fucking god, yes._

Through the white noise and the ringing in his ears and the relief flooding his muscles he barely even feels Jefferson’s hips falter and fuck into him a few more times before he stops, pulls away, leaves Alex empty and wanting and hazy. He doesn’t know how long he drifts, doesn’t want to focus on the specifics, because he’s tired and peaceful and everything is quieter and more relaxed than it has been in a very long time, all that tension forced right out of him until he feels like particularly nice putty. But eventually, from one second to the next, even as his head still spins, dizzy and disoriented, the robust fibers of the couch cushions are suddenly uncomfortable where they press into his face and he’s abruptly shivery, and his ass throbs anew and he registers that there’s a hand moving steadily up and down his back that he can’t stop from shifting under; the firm pressure that revved his engine holding him down earlier now sweaty and oppressive and claustrophobic without the burning arousal to sweeten the touch-

He shifts again to dislodge it and there’s a pause before it’s gone and there's no more touching, and that’s normal, that’s how it is when they’re _done_ , even if he feels colder for the loss of it. Jefferson says _do you want anything_ , from further away, low and quiet and _no_ , Alex doesn’t want anything, Jefferson doesn’t need to worry, Alex has got this. He’ll be out of the way in a minute, he just needs a second to blink his brain back into gear and he doesn’t need _water_ or a _blanket_ to help him along with that. Though when Jefferson mentions it Alex realizes he _is_ really quite cold, but surely that will be more likely to make him fall asleep than get a move on, which is clearly what Jefferson’s angling for because that’s how this works, because it’s obvious in how Alex can _feel_ his awkward hovering and the way he says something offhand about having a shower and finding a guest towel which, _sidebar_ , Alex thinks is pretty fucking rude, actually, that just because he’s fucking _touched_ Alex Jefferson can’t use his own goddamn fancy Egyptian cotton towels or whatever, Christ, he’s not got _fleas-_

He doesn’t get a chance to say any of that though, because he’s too blissed out to really care about giving Jefferson shit for it, feels too fucking good, because it’s Jefferson's damn apartment and his own damn towels he can do whatever the fuck he likes, and because Jefferson says _I’ll just give you a minute_ , which is universal code for _I’m fucking off until you do_ , and so instead of bitching, Alex forces himself as awake as it’s possible for him to be right now, wipes as best he can at the stains up the front of Jefferson’s couch while he convinces his legs to work without collapsing and eventually winces back into his clothes.

He doesn’t hear Jefferson’s shower turn on, which is weird because that’s definitely what he’d said a minute ago, but he resolves that it’s probably so fucking expensive that it doesn’t even _make_ a noise, or that Jefferson’s apartment is so fucking big that it’s just too far away to hear, or that he’s decided to wash himself down in the sink to avoid getting Alex’s germs everywhere-

He’s probably not _that_ dramatic. He’s probably just waiting for Alex to leave before he showers.

Alex takes the hint and saves him the trouble of having to come back and kick him out with all the awkward bells and whistles.

It’s probably better that way anyway.

* * *

There are bare feet up against Alex’s when he snuffles into fuzzy consciousness, foggy and hazy for a second before he flails awake with a start at the feel of them pressed between his, because _what the fuck_ , and then he’s more preoccupied with the room spinning around him as he falls backward off the bed in his surprise, onto the floor, lands on his ass and _ouch, motherfuck-_

His first, ridiculous thought is of _Jefferson_ , breath suddenly coming short and choppy and jagged in his chest because he’s super fucking confused and he doesn’t like it and obviously _not_ , but he can’t blame himself for the flash thought because the guy _was_ the last person he saw last night, until he registers that he’s in his own room, was in his own bed, that his own ragged copy of The Wealth of Nations is digging into his thigh-

“ _Ç'est quoi ce bordel, Alex,_ ” gets slung his way, and when he props himself back up onto his mattress Laf scowls at him with only one eye, only half awake, without moving from where he’s buried in Alex’s other pillow, and okay, _fine_ , but still what the fuck. “-why are you on the ground?”

“Why are you in my bed?” Alex grunts in answer, but climbs back in, because he doesn’t give a shit now he knows who it is and besides, he’s cold and the floor is hard. “Scared the fuckin’ shit outta me-”

“Sorry,” Laf mumbles. “I tried to wake you last night. I did not think you would mind, but I can-”

“I don’t mind,” Alex yawns, and stretches out next to him, because he doesn’t, because he slept fucking _great_ , however briefly, and because Laf looks fucking miserable already without Alex forcing him out to a couch he’s too tall for, flakes of his eyeliner from the night before crusty around his eyes, enough to tell Alex that he was upset last night, that this isn’t a funny, alcohol-fueled accident, that they’ve probably had an argument for him to have wound up here because he has the most ridiculous skincare routine normally. They’re quiet for a long time, Alex leaving him to it, basking in the renewed peace of a calm mind and loose limbs and the pleasant ache of his behind and almost falls back to sleep, which is fucking _unheard_ of for him, but he feels _that_ good, until Laf sniffles and he winces, guilt curling in his stomach, not having realized he maybe wanted to talk about it, and why the fuck does everyone in this goddamn apartment need to _do_ that. He rolls over.

“You guys fight?” he asks eventually, and before he’s even gotten through it Laf bursts out-

“Do you think I _gossip too much_ and _interfere where I am not wanted_?”

Alex winces again. Because sort of _yes_ , but he feels like that being pointed out is probably exactly why he’s got a bedfull of upset, frowning Frenchman and so he doesn’t say that.

“What happened?” he asks diplomatically, and Laf hits him with a string of such rapid, agitated French that Alex has to get him to go back and run through it again because he’s still a little bleary, until he can grasp that John hadn’t been too receptive to Laf’s normal attempts at palming him off on anyone who showed an interest, gotten increasingly annoyed until he’d drunkenly snapped at him, until Herc had stepped in and pointed out that it was obvious John was _seeing someone_ and to _back off already_ which had dissolved into-

“Why wouldn’t he _tell me_ if he was seeing someone-” Laf mumbles, eyes downcast, and Alex can imagine exactly how _that_ got answered, because Laf is here and asking _do you think I interfere_. “-I would be happy for him. I could _help_. _Je ne vous comprends pas tous,_ why do you refuse--”

“Gil,” Alex sighs. “It’s generous and sweet of you but just _maybe_ we don’t need it. John doesn’t need your advice. I don’t need therapizing. Pegs doesn’t need setting up with every eligible lesbian we _ever_ meet-”

“ _Non, petit lion,_ you are confused,” Laf retorts, with a frown. “It is not that you do not need it. It is that you do not want it. Especially you, you _cul têtu_. It is not fair. Why would he tell _mon seul_ and not me-”

“To be fair,” Alex puts in, can’t help defending John, “-he probably _didn’t_ tell Herc. Herc was probably just sober enough to make that assumption-” he pauses at the sudden sharp look and tacks on; “-if he even _is_ seeing-”

“Did he tell _you_ if he was dating anyone?” Laf interrupts, eyes narrowing slightly, and Alex answers like a lawyer.

“No, he hasn’t told me he’s seeing anyone,” he repeats dutifully, honestly, because John _hasn’t_ , even if Alex can extrapolate just fine, and it must seem genuine enough because Laf snuffles back down into the comforter, mollified even as his eyes go dull and sad and his mouth turns down and he pouts.

“There is too little trust in this house.”

Alex feels another pang of guilt, because _yes_ , Laf interferes, loves gossip and is a far-too-fucking-enthusiastic, hopeless romantic but that’s who he’s always been; where he fits, why they love him, just like Alex is self-aware enough to know he’s a neurotic mess of an argumentative asshole and that John is a dick that likes to party a bit too much, who’s never grown out of his sulky teenage rebellion and makes lifelong declarations of love at everything from television shows to condiment brands, for god’s sake and _fucking Christ-_

No wonder Hercules snaps and gets sick of them, sometimes.

But Laf is Laf and Alex can’t stand seeing him so dejected, feels it sinking sadly in his own stomach and doesn’t know what else to do to combat it except show him differently, reluctantly hold out a pinkie finger and say _if I tell you something you can’t ask any fucking questions, alright._

Laf’s eyes brighten a little before he even finishes, finger sliding around Alex’s as he nods, face softening with whatever Alex is about to entrust to him and it’s already begrudgingly worth whatever he’s about to open himself up to, even as he throws out _pretty sure I just had one of the best fucks of my entire goddamn life so far_ , because it's true, and because if there's one thing Alex understands and respects it's damn good sex, and he can admit it now because Laf doesn’t ever have to know _who_.

Laf blinks before he grins wide and completely fucking ignores Alex’s caveat.

“Better than that time with that black lingerie-”

“Yes,” Alex replies, and now that he’s thought about last night he can’t help flexing and shifting to feel the dull throb of pain through his ass and hums, satisfied.

“Better than-”

“ _Yes_ ,” Alex says, because whatever he’s about to say it’s probably true anyway. Laf snorts and pulls their still-joined hands close into his chest and holds them there, squeezes Alex’s fingers tight and his grin goes small and fond and grateful, even as he sighs and shakes his head at something Alex doesn’t understand.

“One day _petit lion_ , we really are going to have to figure out what to do about you.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“ _Exactement, mon cher._ ”

* * *

“Okay, any questions?” Alex says, chest a little tight, because highly prepared or not this proposal is still the result of almost two years of working his ass off. He folds his arms to hide his sweaty hands and looks right at Jefferson, raises an eyebrow, because _fuck it_ , everyone else is already looking that way anyway, no point beating around the bush, because they all know where his opposition is going to come from. “Go on then, let’s hear it and get it over with so we can all sign this shit and be out by lunchtime.”

Everyone else chuckles weakly, because Alex has his game-face charm on, because this is _important_ , but Jefferson doesn’t; he’s been stony faced and tight-lipped all fucking meeting, which Alex had mostly expected because they both knew this was coming, but he’d sort of hoped they could come at it with a little levity to start with, at least. He’s been feeling too good over the weekend not to roll into this week positively, except when he’d swung by Jefferson’s office first thing this morning to ask him if he’d _bought his boxing gloves_ , mostly just because he didn’t really want to stand in this meeting and have the last time he saw the man be when he was balls-deep in Alex’s ass, he’d been on the phone, blinked at Alex, face unreadable for a few seconds and then waved him away with an unimpressed look and so Alex had had to make do with that as enough interim contact between the two juxtaposing events to settle himself.

It’s clear a minute later that the answer to his question would have been a hard _no_ , even if he had managed to ask it, because Jefferson doesn’t _need_ his damn gloves, obviously has no intention of using them as he flicks a glance down at his notes, back up at Alex and tears into Alex’s baby like he’s shredding tissue paper, tense and sharp and clipping with every _how are you expecting to mitigate that loss_ and _this is too much unnecessary movement of funds_ and _did you intend to make this document so damn long everyone got bored before they reached the end and realized how much you could corrupt this system to your own gain?_

It’s nothing more than has Alex preempted, of course. This is why he’d prepared so much in the first place, because he knows his plan is absolutely fine, will work, but it was _this_ he needed to be ready for, and he is, and so he’s unconcerned, unfazed as he bats each one back; _I’ve plotted adequate safety nets for every eventuality_ and _the movements are only in the initial phase_ and _apologies, Jefferson, for trying to outline this plan in detail to alleviate your many concerns, maybe if you read it all properly I wouldn’t have to answer any of these questions_ and he doesn’t know if it’s his snark or the fact that he’s not getting more annoyed than marginally irked, that he’s got all these damn bases covered, or something else entirely that spurs Jefferson on to leave the actual, solid discussion behind and hit him hard and harsh with his favorite ridiculous complaint, but he does, flashes dark eyes at Alex and bites out;

“I don’t at all see why you think it’s acceptable to punish our most successful divisions just because they’re generating more profit-”

“It’s not a damn _punishment_ ,” Alex retorts, already biting, familiar indignation rising up, but Jefferson’s on a roll, leans back in his chair, jaw clenched.

“Oh that’s _bull_ and you know it, Mercer and Redfield are carrying us right now and you want to _defund_ them-”

“Oh my god, _how many fucking times,_ ” Alex groans, balls his fists at his waist to keep from running them through his hair, to keep from demonstrating how frustrated he is, because this isn’t even a valid fucking point, this is just Jefferson being an asshole. But while he can’t exactly reason his way out of that kind of shit, he has at least prepared for it, had known to, and so he lays into it, because the best defense is a good offense and Alex can at least launch a good offense.

He would feel bad about his offense being essentially to make Jefferson look like a prick, _if he wasn’t being such a prick_. “Will you stop obsessing over the individuals, for fuck’s sake, _Christ_ , you know what, if you want to focus on specifics, Jefferson, _let’s look at specifics_ ; we’re not just Mercer and Redfield you know. Those might be the big ones, the ones that get you going, the ones your buddies are all invested in, but how many times do I have to tell you there are more people to think about than that. How do you expect us to support the others when they need it, huh? Academic support; _seasonal_. Agricultural; _seasonal_. Hell, even Greene’s legal work is fucking seasonal considering they mostly deal in rich assholes divorcing each other and that boosts during the winter like goddamn clockwork-”

“-and if those businesses fail completely,” Jefferson says, glaring, gripping his pen so hard Alex thinks he might break it, vindictively hopes he does just so he gets ink all over his sleeve. “-all of our money gets pumped into saving them instead of cutting them loose? How the hell is that sensible-”

“If only it wasn’t _somebody’s_ entire job to make _sure_ they don’t fail,” Alex snaps sarcastically. “If we _only_ had someone responsible for _all of our fucking operations-_ ”

He at least has the satisfaction of inciting Jefferson enough that he’s suddenly on his feet too, his own fists balled and white-knuckled as he glowers and Alex has gone for his competency, so he really _should_ be ready for the rebuttal but he’s not, not really when Jefferson barks out _nobody benefits from this besides you_ and _just because you can’t just admit that you can’t handle your fucking job_ and _you haven’t proven there’s any need for this-_

“ _Are you kidding me-_ ” Alex explodes, because how _dare_ he, how dare he stand there and suggest there’s no _need_ , when not three weeks ago he’d sat in Alex’s office and practically fucking _suggested_ it himself. Alex hadn’t expected Jefferson to admit or even _acknowledge_ that incident but to contradict entirely what he damn well _knows_ to be true infuriates him. “I shouldn’t even _need_ to prove it, this is my goddamn _job,_ if I tell you it needs doing-”

“Oh _yes_ ,” Jefferson snaps. “ _Alexander Hamilton_ always knows best, right? So damn _smart_ , he doesn’t need to take anyone else’s input into consideration, huh? Won’t stick around to listen to an idea long enough to see if it has any merit at all-”

Alex stumbles for a second, because he’s not really sure Jefferson’s on the same tangent as before and he can’t follow it, because this entire meeting is supposed to be about getting other people’s input on his shit, but he’s still glaring at Alex, hard and stormy and panic flares in his gut at the thought of being overrun here because he can’t _lose_ , and so he improvises, because if they’re just going to start yelling at each other about their usual gripes he can definitely manage that-

“I listen to plenty of people. Just not _you_ , because all of your ideas are _fucking garbage-_ ”

“That’s _bullshit_ and you know it,” Jefferson spits out. “You’re incapable of giving me even a fraction-”

“Your budgets are ridiculous and unnecessary. I allow you plenty, you just can’t seem to take what you’re given-”

“And you’re the master of _taking what you’re given,_ right?” Jefferson hurls, vicious, and Alex freezes, reeling, chest heaving and mind blank, because there’s no mistaking the intended dig there for anything other than what it is; a reminder that Jefferson could open his mouth right here and ruin everything. The knowledge curls sick in his stomach, that being the one on his knees means Alex would come off looking _so_ much worse, that he’d never be taken seriously again. Nomatter that it shouldn’t be that way, it would be, and he knows what people already whisper sometimes when they think he’s not listening, when they think he doesn’t have ears in the room, how people question just how much he’d _assisted_ Washington back in the day to suddenly end up Financial Director on the other side of the takeover, nomatter how much he proves his brilliance again and again and _again_. It would be unshakable, the suggestion that he’d opened his mouth for his promotion, for a signature, for his _plan_ , for whatever the fuck they thought he wanted at the time and Jefferson would be the slightly unprofessional guy who couldn’t turn down getting his dick sucked, but then _hey, who can, can’t blame him eh?_

Jefferson would be fine and Alex would be a _whore_ , and he suddenly, violently, _hates_ him for pointing that out, for using that against him, wants to _swing_ for him and-

“How fucking _dare_ you-“

“ _Enough_ ,” Washington bellows, sudden and loud and final and like a bucket of ice being thrown directly into his face when Alex abruptly and horrifyingly remembers exactly where they are, heart pounding in his throat-

“Sit down. _Both of you_ ,” he snaps out, voice belying barely controlled fury. “The rest of you, thank you for your time-”

The rest of the department heads almost literally dive for the door as Alex stands frozen and shaking and light-headed and watches them go. John shoots him wide eyes as he sidles out and it’s enough to tell him just how bad it had looked from the outside, that the vicious edge he’d felt had been at least somewhat evident to everyone else in the room too, though when they’ve all gone and he flicks a reluctant glance at Jefferson he looks just as horrified and chagrined as Alex feels and he’s at least slightly mollified to know it hadn’t just been him that had gotten too wrapped up to notice how nasty it was-

“Sit _down_ ,” Washington repeats, hard and firm and Alex instinctively drops into his seat like his strings have been cut, the shame and horror coiling thick and hot in his stomach made even worse at that moment at the way his ass still fucking aches when he does. He can almost _feel_ Jefferson still looking at him as he slowly sits too, and he curls his fingers into his pants under the table, digs them into his legs until it hurts, to try and keep his face blank.

“I will tolerate a lot,” Washington says icily, and Alex closes his eyes for a second, because he knows his boss too well and this is going to be bad. “I _tolerate_ your apparently inability to be civil toward each other, because it appears to be your main mode of communication. I _tolerate_ your tangents turning most meetings into loud debates, because you are both very intelligent men and oftentimes heated discussion can be excellent brainstorming and motivation. I even _tolerate_ your _private screaming matches_ because you are grown adults who have the freedom to work through your differences in whichever method you see fit, providing no one else is involved. What I will _not_ tolerate is my management meetings turning into our own personal wrestling arena because for some godforsaken reason my _go-to people_ can’t go for even _thirty_ _minutes_ being _remotely_ professional without _tearing each other’s throats out-_ ”

He sighs, and Alex’s gut clenches in foreboding and terrible _déjà vu,_ because nothing good can come of that sigh, because Alex can’t even look at him but he can feel the steady admonishment emanating from his boss in waves, because he’s heard that sigh before and he doesn’t want to hear it afresh because it makes him feel sick. He almost reflexively plugs his ears with his fingers again; he’d been more immature the first time round, after all, but at least he manages to suppress that urge because it hadn’t worked in his favor then, had probably made the situation worse, and he didn’t think it would help now either-

“I want you both to take some mandatory time off, effective immediately,” Washington says, lifts an authoritative hand to stave off their objections even though they’re both staring at him in silence; Jefferson’s shocked, Alex’s wounded. “A couple of weeks should help. You’re obviously both too overstressed that you’re so quick to anger. After you leave this afternoon I don’t want you back until you can calm down and figure out how to act at least _somewhat_ like professionals-”

“Sir, that’s _not_ necessary,” Alex grinds out, because he can’t not try. _Please don’t do this to me,_ he means. Knows it's heard. He hears Jefferson’s assent across the table and suppresses the desire to scream. _Now he fucking agrees-_

“It really is,” Washington says, with terrible finality, looks flatly back at him. _You’ve gone too far_. “If not for your sake then at least for your colleagues’. They deserve a break and so do I. You’re supposed to be helping _steer_ this ship and yet all I have is a permanent headache. I want the both of you out of my sight until you can come to an agreement _without bloodshed._ ”

It takes Alex longer to get up and leave than Jefferson after they’re dismissed, watches the stiff line of Jefferson's shoulders as he apologizes and stalks out while Alex is still scrabbling around for some stability, still reeling and adrift, because how the fuck did his day go from _that_ to _this_ and he’s only halfway to following when Washington sighs _Alexander-_

Alex focuses on the open door in front of him for a long minute, reminds himself that anyone could be listening from the other side, that his boss is right behind him, that he can’t lose his shit, even as he wants to, even as he clenches his jaw against the utterly horrific urge to cry like a scolded toddler, all _please don’t hate me, are you really mad? I’ll try harder-_

Get it together. Christ.

He blinks back the sting in his eyes until he feels safe enough to turn around and swallow carefully.

“I don’t know what else I can do,” he says, almost plaintively, because he _doesn’t_ , because this was meant to be the meeting where he _did_ the convincing, but Washington looks at him steadily and gives him nothing as he taps a finger on the table.

“You need to learn to compromise, son,” he replies smoothly and Alex _almost_ snaps at him, because that _son_ sounds a hell of a lot more condescending than normal right now, because it’s a whole lot fucking harder to _compromise_ when he’s not just negotiating for himself, when he’s expected to manage to broker an agreement that works for all three of them and not concede anything his boss doesn’t want him to, without being _told_ , as well as-

But the door is open, and he knows better than that, even now with his hands sweaty and his face hot and helpless agitation bubbling up his chest and choking him, and so he just coughs out _yessir_ and gets the fuck out of there instead.

“Figure it out, Alexander,” Washington says seriously as he makes his escape. “I know you can.”

* * *

He holds his breath all the way back to his office, because he can _feel_ that tightness clogging up his throat and the furious irregular fluttering in his chest, and in his own head the sounds of his ragged, clipped attempts at trying not to hyperventilate are going to be so much louder and more damning to the people he passes than his silence.

By the time he slams and locks his door his head is pounding and swimming and tilting to grey, and he briefly considers seeing if John will come and help-

He dismisses that immediately because he feels fucking stupid just for thinking it, and instead Alex sits down by his desk, curls into his knees and desperately tries to _breathe_.

It takes a while. 

* * *

He’s not expecting the perfunctory knock at his office door, much, much later, because it’s dark out, because it's been quiet outside in the hall for a while, because thankfully nobody’s dared come near him all fucking day and so he stares blankly for a second when it opens and Jefferson steps inside, because of course it’s him, because he’s got some kind of fucking homing beacon for when Alex is antsy as fuck, because Alex would much rather never acknowledge this entire fucking day for the rest of his _life_ , and so of course Jefferson’s here right now, because today can _fuck right off_ and _why the fuck is he still here?_

“You know,” Jefferson says carefully, glancing at the black windows, “-when he said _after you leave this afternoon_ , I don’t think the implication was that you could just _not_ leave.”

“You’re still here too, genius,” Alex says flatly, and doesn’t admit that he’s considered that strategem already, but can’t bring himself to disobey _that_ directly.

Jefferson flexes his fingers a few times, face unreadable before he says _look, about earlier_ and Alex snaps his laptop closed definitively to stop him, because he’s really not fucking interested in doing this, at all, _ever_ , because there’s nothing to be gained from it and his own hands still haven’t stopped shaking yet and he really doesn’t want Jefferson _knowing_ that.

“Were you threatening me?” he asks, and forces himself to pay attention to the reaction, because it’s the only important thing, the only thing he needs to know, definitely the only thing he gives a fuck about. He’s already considering asking John to put on his little grey hacker hat and dig up every-fucking-thing he can on Jefferson, anything Alex might be able to use to defend himself here, even though they haven’t needed to stoop to that level since back before the company was signed over to Washington, but there’s a discomfort in his midsection that he doesn’t think will go away until he feels in control of the situation-

“What- _no_ ,” Jefferson frowns until he understands what Alex is implying and is so genuinely affronted at being asked, so taken aback that something inside Alex uncoils a little with the loss of that particular fear. Okay then. “ _N_ _o_ , I was just pissed, I’m s-”

“Then I don’t care,” Alex says with finality, because he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore now that question has been answered, because under his desk his feet are shifting restlessly and he can taste blood on his tongue from chewing the inside of his mouth. That one thing was all he had needed to know. The rest is meaningless.

They fight. That’s what they do. It is what it is. He doesn’t care.

He’s upset that he’s being _banished_ from his fucking workplace. He’s upset about being reprimanded like a misbehaving teenager. He’s upset about the fact that his presentation turned into such a disaster. He's upset that he knows he'll think about the resigned disapproval in his boss's face when he closes his eyes but doesn't sleep tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after that, probably. But he’s not upset that Jefferson threw _that_ at him like a grenade.

Because if he was that would suggest Alex had expected anything remotely different than their status quo, which he hadn’t. This is just what they do.

And so he doesn’t care. Because that wouldn’t make sense.

Logic.

“You- _don’t care_.” Jefferson repeats slowly, meets Alex’s eyes with raised brows. “You have absolutely _nothing_ to say-”

“I don’t care,” Alex confirms, looks down at his fingers and then hides them under the desk. “Goodnight.”

Jefferson blinks but leaves with a _right, okay, goodnight,_ and Alex presses his forehead to his desk for a second before he packs up his shit, hands unsteady and head pounding and chest heaving, beacuse now all he wants to do is get the fuck out of here, but only gets so far as grabbing his coat before his door is flung open again and Jefferson stalks back in growling _no, you know what-_ and locks it behind himself and Alex almost sobs, because he’d rather pull his own fingernails out with pliers than have to re-live the shitshow of today, but he can’t fucking _leave_ without passing Jefferson with his arms crossed over his chest, stood in Alex’s way and so _distraction_ it is-

“It’s a little late,” Alex throws out, dumps his bag at Jefferson’s feet and steps up into his space. “But sure, whatever-”

Because if he has to get on his knees and _prove_ that he doesn’t care, that everything is normal, that they don’t have to dig up this grave, then fine. It’s fine. He can do that. Then Jefferson will shut up and let it go-

“ _Stop_ ,” Jefferson says, voice tight but controlled, glares down at Alex with gritted teeth, and at least that’s familiar. That's normal. “Look, I’m sor-”

“ _I don’t care-_ ” Alex snaps, and goes for Jefferson’s belt, because he’s not hearing this shit, because they don’t _apologize_ , because if Alex acknowledges that Jefferson is _sorry_ it would mean Alex is upset and he’s not. He can’t be, because that doesn't make sense, and he can’t have those foundations shifting, not when he feels like everything else he balances himself on has been yanked out from under him-

“Hamilton-” Jefferson’s hands close around his firmly but then he stops, and Alex abruptly realizes that he’s done a truly shit job of hiding his shaking hands, that he’s just offered them up like evidence, even though he’s only agitated about the way he can still hear that _figure it out_ ringing in his ears, because he’s got no fucking clue how he’s going to do that and come out on top, but Jefferson’s not going to _know_ that, and so he curls them up tight and tugs them away, because he feels like there’s something less weak about trembling fists than trembling fingers.

“I don’t care,” Alex repeats, forces it quiet and steady, forces himself to meet eyes that look at him for too long like they’re trying to pick him apart like a jigsaw puzzle, like he doesn’t already feel like all of his pieces are on the floor of the board room two levels up.

“Okay, fine,” Jefferson murmurs eventually, and then drops to his knees.

Wait _what_.

“Wait, what?” Alex stutters, utterly fucking confused, sure, careful fingers undoing _his_ belt, instead. “What the fuck are you doing-”

“Working out some tension,” Jefferson says determinedly, and then earnestly _does_.

He’s a dick, Alex thinks, sinking hands into his hair while Jefferson returns the innumerable favors Alex has done him over the last three months.

He’s a dick, because he shouldn’t be able to make it feel like he’s still in charge even from the floor, hands holding hard at Alex’s hips and completely in control of how Alex moves, even now, mouth purposeful and unfaltering and _demanding_ Alex's pleasure with every pass. 

He’s a dick, because it’s _good_ , because it won’t undo the fact that he’s on mandatory vacation, or the fact that he has no idea how to compromise on this, or the fact that come tomorrow Alex will still be wound tighter than a two-dollar watch and no closer to peace, but it’s enough that he might get home and into his own bed this evening before he completely loses his shit.

He’s a dick, because it’s not until Alex is panting and swearing and shaking that Jefferson reaches over and pointedly flicks his office door unlocked, and even though it's probably highly unlikely at this time of the evening, it still puts the risk out there, the possibility of him being caught on his knees for Alex and it's only then that Alex finally realizes that he’s maybe deliberately equalizing the imbalance he'd weaponized. That he's maybe not _working out tension_ , he's maybe giving the closest thing to an apology that Alex will let him.

One that Alex can convince himself isn't anything of the sort.

So he closes his eyes and does exactly that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> vous êtes à la fois des idiots aveugles et stupides / you are both blind and stupid idiots  
> Ç'est quoi ce bordel, Alex / What the hell, Alex  
>  Je ne vous comprends pas tous / I don't understand you all  
> cul têtu / stubborn ass  
> exactement, mon cher / exactly, my dear  
> ~~~  
> One of these days I'm gonna end up posting a 10k chapter I swear. I just think I have a really difficult time ending them. I think that's why they go on so fucking long because I can't find a stopping point that feels good. Oh well.  
> ~~~  
> Fun fact: I love this story and what it's become now, but this fic started off life as five very specific random scenes that I wrote offhand almost a year ago for fun that were connected incredibly fucking vaguely before it somehow mutated into *this* and one of those five scenes is in this chapter so it feels hella fucking weird to post it and I really hope you enjoyed this.  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

“So nothing yet?”

“ _No_ ,” Thomas huffs for the fourth time in as many days. “ _Still_ no. I would have told you.”

James hums a little skeptically, purses his lips and sips at his glass, regards Thomas over the remains of their meal, and at least he’d lasted until they’d eaten before finally asking this time. “I must admit I didn’t think he’d actually hold out.”

“I did. At least this long. He won’t want to look weak,” Thomas sighs, because he _had_ known, because Hamilton is a stubborn little shit and because Thomas had managed to carry on this fantastic trajectory of opening his mouth and shoving his foot straight in there, which was plenty alarming in and of itself because it’s something that just doesn’t fucking happen to him, except now apparently it does.

It somehow has to be Hamilton’s fault because it’s only ever _at_ _him_ when it happens.

He doesn’t explain this to James though, how he’d accidentally thrown a gauntlet, because then James would no doubt ask questions Thomas would prefer not to have to think about the answers to, because he doesn’t have them or even _want_ to have them.

Questions like why he’d even needed to go and actually, physically _see_ Hamilton before he’d felt like he could leave the office for who knows how long.

Like why it had seemed _so_ important to him that they were on an even footing before they headed into what he already knew would be a resentful Mexican standoff even without that fight hanging over them.

Like why he’d needed Hamilton to _hear_ him; that he hadn’t meant to bring _that_ into the boardroom, anywhere _near_ their work, no matter how angry he’d been. _That’s entirely fuckin’ separate_ Hamilton had hissed months ago, on the floor between Thomas’s knees, hard-faced but still so damn eager even then, right at the start and he’d been right, it _was_ separate, so entirely so that Thomas almost felt like once one of them tripped that switch it was sometimes easier and less messy to pretend they were separate fucking people entirely.

But they weren’t and Thomas had slipped and blurred that line, so fiercely outraged that he’d needlessly spent his entire damn weekend tormenting himself that he’d somehow completely misread what he’d assumed was a pretty fucking spectacular lay, actually; had been utterly _furious_ that he’d spent two days horrified and self-recriminating that _he’d_ been too busy having a great time while maybe accidentally crossing some line, or having upset or _hurt_ Hamilton enough that he’d scrambled to get the hell out of Thomas’s apartment at the first possible moment, suddenly worried that Hamilton was far too belligerent and combative to ever actually _use_ a safeword even if he’d wanted to and they might just be _working out tension_ but he’d never want to fuck up like _that_.

Except Monday morning had rolled around and the dick had strolled into Thomas’s office, so obviously _fine_ , so obviously more loose and relaxed than he ever damn well was normally, so obviously _still fucking buzzed_ that Thomas had wanted to wring his scrawny neck, because he _hadn’t_ hurt him, because Hamilton was just a rude little asshole who’d gotten what he wanted and fucked off while Thomas was still buried in his linen cupboard hunting down a guest towel and wondering how keen he’d be to go again in half an hour or so because it really had been _that_ good.

But it didn’t matter how pissed he’d been, he’d never meant to use that, to wield it like a weapon, had immediately regretted it the second Hamilton had stuttered and his face had gone blank as he'd processed what Thomas had said. He didn't know exactly _why_ it had been so important to him that Hamilton know that _Thomas_ knew that _wasn’t okay_ , that his obviously already terrible opinion of Thomas didn't sink to thinking him able to be that cruel, that although he insulted every other aspect of Hamilton's damn mouth, _t_ _hat_ was one he actually really fucking appreciated, because although their thing was just about _convenience_ and _stress relief_ he’d suddenly, keenly not wanted it to _stop_ before he even got another chance to-

Well. Needless to say he doesn’t really want James digging deep and examining _that_ motivation either.

And so he doesn’t explain to James how he’d known Hamilton would drag his heels in getting to the negotiating table. That Thomas had maybe screwed up before he’d even really finished smoothing out his last. That Hamilton had sighed _christ, would you just fucking sign the thing so we don’t have to actually do this_ , low and weary and sounding like he’d only just cut himself off from ending his exasperation with a _please_ , tugging unconsciously at his hair and prodding Thomas out of his office, not ten minutes after he’d had his hands down Thomas’s pants, reciprocating, which, in actuality, was really not Thomas’s end goal in getting his mouth on Hamilton; the asshole just wouldn’t fucking _listen_ and so he’d made his point in the next best way he could. He’d tried to object, almost said _you don’t need to_ or _I didn’t mean for you to_ except the moment that warm, small hand had curled around him, calloused and rough in places Thomas’s palm wasn’t and tighter and sharper than his grip when he touched himself he’d realized he’d never had Hamilton’s hands on him like that and suddenly the words had died on his tongue.

He doesn’t explain to James that Hamilton had looked _done;_ drawn and pale, too-tense and too-upset, even as he’d insisted he wasn’t and that he’d thrown the statement out there as an irritated, bitchy grumble, obviously hadn’t even meant it, really, as he’d shooed Thomas out, but that Thomas had looked over at him so obviously worn thin and had been utterly horrified to find that he’d been far too tempted to say _yeah, okay_.

 _When hell freezes over_ , he’d thrown back instead; drawn the line in the sand, reflexive and unthinking and too busy being appalled at himself, because feeling guilty and sucking it up and trying to apologize was one thing, the _right_ and _proper_ thing to do, but being virtually willing to fold like a cheap suit on something he’d been fighting against for almost eighteen months just because Alexander Hamilton looked a fucking _state_ was a completely different beast and _utterly ridiculous of him-_

Except then Hamilton’s face had shuttered again; he’d blinked for a second before his face had gone flat and tight and a muscle in his jaw had twitched as he’d shrugged and waved Thomas off like a bothersome mosquito. _Call me when you change your mind,_ he’d snapped, solidified the challenge, and stalked off.

 _And what if I don’t_ Thomas had called at his retreating back, couldn’t help digging them deeper now he'd started.

 _Then have a nice fucking life, you dick_ Hamilton had yelled, and put the final nail in the coffin without even looking back.

And so here they are, as they always seem to end up no matter how far they come; backed into a corner by their own reflexive pride and temper and just waiting to see who would break first.

It won’t be Thomas. It _can’t_ be Thomas. Because Thomas is now painfully aware that Hamilton had been right. It _is_ inevitable. He’s going to have to sign the fucking thing, eventually. No matter what he may barter in exchange for it, what concessions Hamilton will give to make it more amenable to him when they do inevitably hash it out, Thomas _will_ have to back down and agree to it; he’s going to have to go back on his many, _many_ proclamations of the much worse things he’d rather do than agree. It’s already going to dent his pride and his platform and his reputation.

He’s already going to _lose_ , no matter what he gets. He can’t be the one to back down and ask to negotiate too. He's not going _begging_ to _lose_. He's not giving away that much power. Not to Hamilton.

And so it has to be Hamilton who breaks. And he will. Because he does. Because he _has._ Because he might be the most contrary little fucker Thomas has ever met, might argue that black is white if Thomas says it isn’t, but it was Hamilton who’d broken and offered the olive branch in their Mercer stalemate; sat on Thomas’s desk and spitting out a negotiation opener, Hamilton who’d broken and helped Thomas fix his own fuck up in the middle of the night instead of letting him hang for it, Hamilton who’d been strained and shaking and almost broken open in his office before he’d even been forced away because god knows Thomas has no clue what the fuck he’s going to do without his work to keep him occupied.

It has to be Hamilton that breaks the silence and it will be.

Thomas just wishes he felt even remotely good about sitting around and waiting for it.

He doesn’t _want_ it. Not like this, and isn’t it fucking _hilarious_ that he’d probably have relished it a few months ago but now there seems to be only one way he’s really interested in seeing Hamilton broken; cracked open and shameless and unreservedly pleading for him and _fuck_ , he can’t think about _that_ , because since being reassured that _that night_ hadn't been in any way offensive Thomas has been able to think of barely anything else and it’s driving him completely fucking insane because he's had _far_ too much free time on his hands, so to speak; long, lazy mornings not having to get out of bed, time to curl his fingers slow around his cock and think of Hamilton spread and begging on the end of it, lain red and raw and writhing on his lap, watching his own fingers sink wet and easy into that tight, hot little-

He thinks carpal tunnel syndrome is a terrifyingly plausible possibility after this week.

“You never know, you both hold out long enough Washington might just give in instead,” James says wryly, mercifully distracts him. “He seems a little tense at the moment without you.”

“Without _Hamilton_ ,” Thomas snorts. “Any urgent things of mine are being forwarded on to John, but there's no way Hamilton's allowed anyone the ability to do his job without him, not without-” _Not without his plan in place_ he keeps from finishing, thinks of Hamilton flicking through sheafs and sheafs of accounts trying to source his pro bono budget and imagines Hamilton trying to explain to someone else how to manage that system in his absence. Doesn’t feel guilty. “- regardless, he clearly wants this sorted more than he needs us there.”

“For now. I’d wager he changes his mind the closer we get to the conference,” James says with a raised eyebrow, and he doesn’t like the idea of Thomas forced over a metaphorical barrel any more than he does, possibly wants him to hold out purely to make a statement about how he expects to be treated. “He’s not going to shoot himself in the foot and lose the footfall at your presentation, _or_ your connections.”

“Hamilton will snap before then,” Thomas says with more confidence than he feels, because that’s _three weeks away_ and he _has_ to snap before then, because Thomas doesn’t want to examine the weird _off_ feeling in his stomach at the idea of that much radio silence between them when he’s used to literal hours of his time a day being sapped up by the man. “He’s practically married to his job. He’ll miss it too much.”

“Do _you_ not miss it?” James frowns, and Thomas shrugs, because he _does_ , because Thomas works _hard_ , but he’s far too aware that he doesn’t _have_ to, knows damn well he could hold out forever, go home and live in luxury for the rest of his life without a care in the world and so he supposes that makes him a little more relaxed about the entire situation. Thomas relishes the challenge of his job, but if he’s going to be forced away on a mandatory break he’s damn well going to sleep in, catch up on the New York Times Best Seller list and spend as much time in the massage chair as he is the gym.

Thomas _will_ work this out and go back to work with a renewed determination because he wants to _build_ on his family name, but he’s never been as doggedly dedicated to the company as Hamilton is. Thomas is very good at what he does, and he’s a _Jefferson_ , he could easily quit and fall right into a job somewhere else, somewhere equally as interesting, with prospects just as auspicious, possibly not run by a man who suspends his staff like delinquent teenagers. He could probably even take James with him; his boss at Rochambeau had sure been willing to make that offer at Thomas’s discretion-

He won't. But he could. Thomas has got enough wiggle room in his industry to not be remotely stressed about this whole thing.

Yet another reason he won’t be the one to crack. He doesn’t _need_ this.

But Hamilton does.

“Of course I do,” he says blithely as he mulls over the dessert menu and tries very hard to ignore the sudden, niggling feeling that the main thing he misses about his job is maybe the whole reason he’s on this damn break in the first place. 

* * *

Gilbert’s annoyed.

Thomas can tell at dinner on Saturday, even though they talk about Hercules and then their vacation plans and then Angelica’s engagement, even though they don’t once broach the topic of _Hamilton_ , even though they _never_ really typically broach the topic of the man besides Thomas sometimes grumbling out a complaint on those occasions Hamilton’s really done a number on him and Gilbert shutting him down with a pleasant _I will not pick sides between you two idiots._ But he’s a little distant and quiet and more reserved than normal and Thomas can’t help but wonder if Hamilton is enduring the same treatment at home; if this is an _I am very disappointed in both of you_ sulk or whether in fact Hamilton isn’t holding up all too well and Thomas is bearing the brunt of the blame for it.

He’s surprised by how much he wants to know if Hamilton is alright - because Thomas can’t help but think of his blank, sucker-punched face when they’d been given their marching orders and suspect he might not be - but he’s never asked after the man before and so he can’t now, not just out of the blue, and so he doesn’t, even with it sitting on the tip of his tongue.

“-did not see you at all,” Gilbert says, frowning as he picks at he remains his food. “Were you there? _Je t'ai cherché;_ I heard that you had been in touch with Adrienne and wanted to know how she is doing but I have spoken to her myself now.” He shrugs.

“Of course I was there,” Thomas replies, chuckling a laugh, even though everything that had come before Hamilton up against his living room wall seemed mostly blurry, like he’d not _really_ been there, like all he’d done that entire evening was glare at his shoes and try not to hit someone. Mostly Hamilton, to be honest, though he’d technically still ended the night doing that and _don’t think about that right now._ “Angelica would probably have gutted me if I hadn’t been. Something came up and I left around midnight, though I’m sorry I missed you.”

Gilbert’s face finally loses some of it’s shadow and he lights up for a second as he regards Thomas with interest and a raised brow.

“Really? _Tu n'es pas le seul, quelle chance._ Excellent timing. You might be able to help me with something I have desperately been trying to discover, then. As you left did you happen to see who Ale-” he stammers to a halt abruptly before he finishes, leaves Thomas waiting expectantly while Gilbert blinks at him, mouth frozen and parted like a fish for what feels like a solid two minutes before he suddenly shakes his head, rubs his eyes with a huff and his lips twitch up in mild amusement. “- _putain, évidemment. Comment n'ai-je pas pensé à ça_. Forgive me, Thomas, I believe I am being _incredibly_ dense. It does not matter.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas frowns, _wants_ to help, because Gilbert had finally seemed a little more comfortable, though when he asks Gilbert’s face softens more than it had throughout the entirety of brunch.

“Yes, yes; _ça ne fait rien_. Besides I should probably get home soon, I do not dare leave an aimless Alexander alone for very long. The longer I do the more chance there is that the apartment will cease to exist by the time I return.”

Thomas resolutely doesn’t think about how damn quickly he jumps on the natural opportunity as Gilbert calls for the check. “How is- is he appreciating the vacation?”

He almost covers the waver in his voice that sounds dangerously like _concern_ with _is he ready to give in yet_ and tells himself that the reason he doesn’t is because that would definitely be rude and inappropriate, and not because it isn’t really what he wants to know.

Gilbert pauses for a moment and that hesitation, as well as the way his face goes a little tight again answers Thomas’s question a lot better than his breezy reply; “About as much as one appreciates a stroll over hot coals, I believe, though I am wildly speculating because he is Alexander and so would not admit to such a thing, in any regard, _imbécile têtu et menteur_. His books are all migrating _everywhere_ , none of the furniture is where it should be and our food is now arranged in order of how _gross_ or _acceptable_ it is. I cannot even tell which cupboard is which; for some indiscernible reason he has put spaghetti three cupboards away right up next to tuna instead of with the pasta where it is _meant_ to live and I have not seen my spiralizer in at least three days.”

Thomas can’t help grinning in spite of himself and the way he thinks Gilbert’s definitely minimizing Hamilton’s agitation for his benefit, because _yeah, okay_ , maybe he misses that brand of crazy a little bit. “ _Tuna smells like feet,_ ” he quotes in Hamilton’s annoying whine, even though it really fucking _doesn’t_ , but whatever, the guy’s insane. “-and unlike pasta, you can’t eat spaghetti without having to actually _look_ at it, which takes far too much focus away from more important things. That’s your _gross_ cupboard right there. Have you checked the trash for your spiralizer?”

“Why would he-“

“Because they’re _pretentious garbage, why can’t you just chop your vegetables like everybody else_ ,” Thomas says dryly and rolls his eyes. Gilbert makes a grumbling noise and shakes his head again, forgets himself and who he's with and lets his frustration loose for a moment.

“Honestly, I assumed you two would solve this ridiculous spat of yours quickly, it is _incredibly_ irritating that you have not. I cannot cope with having him in the apartment in this state. This morning we were discussing the merits of a new pet for my mother and somehow were subjected to a thirty minute speech on the failings of _gerbil ownership_. I am not getting my mother a _gerbil_.” He sighs and gestures wide with his exasperation. “I had at least thought when I did not hear him come home last night that his mood would be _somewhat_ improved, _mais non, ce matin mon ami est encore intolérable._ I did wonder if I could find out who- Well, _ça ne fait rien_ , that is obviously also a dead end anyway. I am sorry this is all very unfair of me, surely you did not wish to hear this-”

He’s right and he’s wrong, because Thomas _does_ want to know how Hamilton’s doing, wants to know if there _is_ any chance he’s going to back down and offer some semblance of a truce, because he’s a little getting antsy himself now, though he's not sure that's all about missing work. He also maybe, possibly wants to know what he’s _up to_ just as much, because he’s not used to not knowing _exactly_ what Hamilton is doing, what he thinks of the last book he read or who in his department is a _fucking moron_ today, or whether there’s a fucking hole in his sock, _whatever_ , because Hamilton tends to tell him all of these things in excruciating detail even as he takes a breath and then tells Thomas he has no time for whatever the fuck Thomas actually _needs_ him to do, even though if he'd skipped all the bullshit he might have done, and it's weird, _not_ knowing. 

Thomas _wants_ to know, but his hand is suddenly painfully tight around his glass as Gilbert’s implication sinks in, as he realizes that he knows exactly how Hamilton tends to combat his stress and that he’s obviously not coming to _Thomas,_ which means _somewhere_ , someone who doesn’t see both sides of him, doesn’t understand just how much he needs driving out of his own head has gotten to put their hands on him when there’s no good goddamn way they’d be able to-

He tells himself he’s definitely annoyed that Hamilton is just going out and getting laid while Thomas sits and waits around for him to break so they can _get the fuck on with it_ , and ignores the voice in his head that sounds far too much like James’s, raising questions Thomas doesn’t want to answer even when he’s not there; _you know you could be doing the same, why aren't you?_

“Getting your mother a pet?” Thomas manages to latch onto like a lifeline, and studiously avoids absolutely everything else. Gilbert nods, distracted as he unfolds the check.

“ _Oui_ , I believe she needs the company to keep busy with how much my father is working currently. I suggested a puppy, but _mon coeur_ thought of a kitten and then Alexander interjected and so we did not decide. You remember my mother, what do you think?”

“Definitely dog,” Thomas agrees, because he remembers that Will had wanted a dog, right before they’d broken up, stuck at his computer designing, desperate for a reason to leave his apartment for even an hour a day and he thinks Gilbert’s mother is probably very similar, though Will hadn't gotten one, because Thomas prefers cats. Thomas _likes_ cats; he likes that they’re self-sufficient and he likes that they’re just a little bit vicious, and he even likes that most of them are assholes, because on the rare occasion they let him pet them he feels like he’s special, like he’s earned something, even if that’s just his ego being bolstered. 

Gilbert’s face softens when Thomas explains himself, grins to himself, actually, though Thomas doesn’t really see what’s so amusing about his last break up, because it’s not like Gilbert _knows_ Will is still on Thomas’s Christmas card list, but he flashes that wide smile at Thomas all the same.

“Do you know, we had a rescue cat years ago before I left Paris the first time,” he says after a moment of consideration, eyes twinkling as he gathers his things. “That poor thing would not come anywhere near us; ran and hid in the carry cage even when we tried to feed it, though it was _clearly_ starving. I remember my parents gave up and just left food outside of the cage, but I was so determined to make it like me that I fed it inching closer and closer until one day it eventually curled in my lap and refused to move no matter what I did. It took considerable effort and several scratches but it was more than worth it in the end; in fact, after he warmed to me that cat was more loyal than any dog.”

“So… you want to get your mother a cat?” Thomas asks, mostly confused, because hadn’t he _just_ said the complete opposite? Gilbert smiles brightly at him and shakes his head, slaps him on the shoulder as they leave.

“No, no, I think you are absolutely correct. But maybe _you_ should think about getting a cat, Thomas, if you like them so much. Very rewarding.”

“But so much trouble,” Thomas frowns, thinking of little claws in his nice couch and his hardwood floors and his sheepskin rug. Gilbert huffs a laugh into his hand.

“ _Oui, certainement cela_.”

* * *

He can’t stop thinking about it.

Not Gilbert's mother's new puppy, but his throwaway comment.

_Did not hear him come home last night-_

He can’t stop _thinking_ about it, or stop the seasick, turned-over feeling in his stomach, which is actually probably nothing to do with that comment and everything to do with the half a bottle of scotch he’s sunk instead, sprawled on his sofa with nothing else to do besides drink alone, hate-watch reruns of _The Bachelor_ into the early hours and use the annoyance of it to distract him from thinking about Alexander Hamilton face down in somebody else’s bed, because that is _none of Thomas’s business_ and he definitely doesn’t care, and so the twisting of his gut is absolutely because he’s drunk and laying down, because there’s definitely no other reason for it.

None at all, because it makes _perfect_ sense, because Hamilton’s probably driving himself utterly mad right now and so _of course_ he’s gone out looking for some relief, and of course he’s not come to _Thomas,_ because he and Thomas aren’t speaking right now, and because their thing is purely convenience anyway; purely a built-in hookup down the hall for two men who’s lives don’t extend much beyond the walls of their building, and a casual fuck after a work social event, _sure, that’s plausible_ , but it suddenly becomes a hell of a lot more intentional if he turns up on Thomas’s doorstep _asking_ to be wrecked-

And so of course he hasn’t.

Thomas doesn’t want to think too much about the depressing lack of convincing he knows it would take if he _did_ , even though a stressed and agitated Hamilton that cracks and calls and says _please let’s try to come to an arrangement_ is supposed to be what he’s waiting for, and _helping him out_ with that is nothing short of counterproductive. But he’s had that fuck playing on repeat for a week and the alternative is Hamilton going out and sleeping with someone else _anyway_ , so surely it may as well be Thomas benefiting instead.

For a second he imagines how it might go down; there’d be a knock at his door at about this sort of time, actually, _stupid o’clock_ , because Hamilton’s the type to feel like things are more secret and illicit when you do them at night and _everything’s more fun when it feels wrong_. He’d show up with no warning too, because he’d surely much prefer to proposition in person where he can control what’s said or not said just by when he leaves or gets on his knees and ends the conversation. For someone that talks _so fucking much_ , he really doesn’t seem to be all that keen on those. He’d be grumpy; pissed off that he’d been driven to come here, argumentatively ornery because of it, even though he’d have been the one shown up at Thomas’s door. He might start playing his usual game; giving Thomas crap, combative and annoying and giving the shittiest excuses for showing up until Thomas snapped and bent him over the nearest piece of furniture. Or he might come at it ballsy and shameless, shut the door behind himself and get on his knees right there in Thomas’s hallway, or maybe with that unnerving bluntness he gets to combat anything he percieves as awkwardness; Thomas imagines getting halfway through something like _what time do you call this_ , only to have Hamilton roll his eyes and snap _oh just shut up and make me come._

_I think you’ll find that’s my line_ , Thomas would say and then-

He has his hand shoved down the front of his sweatpants before he even really decides he’s going to, because _fuck_.

He thinks about that too-delicate frame up against his as he wraps a firm hand around himself, thinks about the heated red of Hamilton’s soft skin as he strokes steadily, thumbs over where he’s leaking and spreads it along his length as he thinks about how _wet_ Hamilton had been inside, lube smeared down the backs of his thighs because Thomas had been all-too aware of how little prep he’d done, thinks about the noises he’d made as he tips his own head back and groans, because the _noises_ Hamilton makes are the _best._ Thomas has never had someone so fucking _expressive_ and _fuck_ , he misses that, he misses that _mouth;_ is used to having it wrapped around him twice a week, misses the heat and softness of it and the pretty sounds that come out of it and his teeth buried in his lip and clamping down on Thomas’s fingers and the way he can express a million different things with the word _fuck_ and the smirk it curls into when he thinks he’s being funny and the way he won’t ever shut the fuck up-

“-what the _everlovin’ fuck_ kinda time d’you call this?” Hamilton’s scratchy, tired voice is suddenly really damn loud in his ear and Thomas looks blearily in abject horror at the phone suddenly clutched in his other hand like it’s a rattlesnake as Hamilton’s tinny voice continues to echo from it, slowly losing the muzzy disorientation and coming a little more cautiously. “-llo? _Jefferson?_ What the _fuck_. Are you alr- I me- _Fuck_. Are you _dying_ or something?”

“-the hell would I call _you_ if I was dying?” Thomas mutters, incredulous, even as he tries to decide if he should just hang up now and pretend this was some weird, early-hour butt dial, but something familiar and pleasant is curling through him just at the sound of that irritated tone and at the fact that he’s already somehow managed to fit three cusses into under half a minute and so he can’t bring himself to press that red button. “-y’always such a damn drama queen-”

“Are you _drunk_?” Hamilton snorts, sounding a little more at ease. He _hmmph’s_ and Thomas hears movement as he shifts around on the other end and huffs loudly. “-and here’s me thinking you might finally be caving, that I might be getting to go back to work soon, when really you’re just fucked off your face and wanting to ruin my sleep-”

“Don’ believe you sleep,” Thomas says, ignores the jab about work because he doesn’t want to _think_ about that right now, and he must be harder up than he’d thought because just _hearing_ Hamilton launch off into a rant like that; annoying and whiny does something funny to Thomas’s balls and his dick twitches, hard and heavy on his stomach, abandoned in his surprise and he wonders if it would be really bad form to just- “Y’in bed?”

“ _Yes_ , Jefferson, It’s three in the morning and I’m in bed,” Hamilton repeats, more than a little condescending.

Thomas can _hear_ the eye-roll in his voice but can’t keep the follow up question from tumbling out as his hand twitches against his thigh. “Yours?”

“You think I’d answer the fuckin’ phone if it weren’t?” Hamilton says, reluctant amusement lacing his tone now, and Thomas and ignores the thing in his chest that feels like relief that Hamilton’s spent his evening sleeping - almost like a normal person - in his own bed, not out getting something that won’t help from someone who isn’t him.

“Yeah, if it were me callin’” he mutters, because he probably _would._ “Know damn well I’d be better than whoever y’conned into bed this week-”

“Christ, I’d almost forgotten the size of your fucking ego,” Hamilton huffs, but he doesn’t disagree and it fans the scotch-drizzled flame of Thomas’s confidence enough to spur him on.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he challenges, and grins at his ceiling when for once that offer is met with pointed silence and realizes he's _definitely_ drunk enough to lean into what he wants to do now, to let his voice go low and rough and intentional. “-been thinkin’ about it, you know.”

He hears Hamilton’s breath hitch, and when his voice comes it’s a little patchy. “Are you actually-… I mean-… _fuck_. Right okay. _This_ …is what you called for?”

He sounds breathless and maybe a little uncertain, and it reminds Thomas that he’s probably not entirely sure of himself. Despite his inability to shut up most all of the time he’s all action over words in this, at least with Thomas, that clever mouth reduced to stuttered curses and whines and whimpers and high, pleading little moans that just make Thomas wants to mess him up even more.

Sometimes Thomas thinks it’s there, on the tip of his tongue, the most delightful things he can tell Hamilton wants to say, to ask for but doesn’t, like Thomas might laugh, or use them against him, or do _any-fucking-other thing_ than give him exactly whatever it is he’s wanting to beg for, and so he thinks Hamilton’s maybe a little lost, because Thomas has tripped the _shall we_ switch, and now is where he’d normally already be on his knees. But he’s breathing hard down the line and he’s not hung up yet and _fuck_ , Thomas is drunk and just wants to _hear_ him-

“Thinkin’ about how you sounded _so damn good_ , spread open and beggin’ for me,” Thomas tells him, because it answers the question just as well as a _yes,_ because there's as much heat as there is liquor thrumming in his veins and because he _had,_ all _please god, just put something inside me please_ and _please, I need you to fuck me_ and that lovely, helpless little sobbing noise he always makes when he comes. Hamilton’s sharp inhale breaks on a quiet whimper in his ear as he says _oh shit_ and it’s all Thomas needs to have a hand back on himself, moving slow and steady and he murmurs; “Sound so fuckin’ _pretty_ when you come, y’know-”

“ _Oh fu-_ …do you want- should I-” Hamilton stutters, tight with something that might be arousal or caution or a bit of both and Thomas doesn't really care which right now as long as he follows through with that offer.

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” Thomas says, rubs over the head of himself, imagines Hamilton carefully slipping his own hand between his legs and groans. “Wanna hear you _come_.”

“ _Shit_ , okay, okay yeah, fuck it,” Hamilton mutters, and it’s definitely arousal thickening his tone. Thomas hears rustling as he maybe flops back down into bed or stretches and can’t help imagining him buried in Thomas’s own sheets, soft white cotton against his honey skin while Thomas spreads him open and hears him make these sounds in person; the wet, sloppy-sounding movement of his hand like he’s lubed it up and quiet, choked-off moans straight into Thomas’s ear as he gets himself off and he closes his eyes to listen to it, to really _hear_ what Hamilton sounds like touching himself in the middle of the night, movements sounding more and more frantic, such a frenetic, unrelenting, _Hamilton_ pace that Thomas is too close to the edge already just matching it, hearing him, until he grunts, frustrated and Thomas hears him shift around again and go faint for a second. “I can’t- headphones- _goddamn paper-thin fuckin’ walls_ \- I need both _hands_ -”

Thomas can’t help his moan when the words finally make sense, or how his own hand speeds up further, hips shifting again and again to meet his grip. _"Yes-_ You gon’ fuck yourself on your fingers for me?”

He doesn’t even need Hamilton’s gasped _yes, yes,_ because the punched-out, pleased little groan he lets out a minute later when he slides inside himself is the same one he’d made for Thomas’s finger first pushing inside him, the same noise that had come from his throat as he’d sunk down onto Thomas, the sound of his need being satisfied, of him being _filled_ and Thomas almost fucking sprains something with how he strains up into his fist, imagines causing that sound over and _over_ -

The slick sounds of Hamilton’s hands on his own body are quiet, background noise now, like the new position of his phone or the headphones he has isn’t optimal to pick them up clearly, but it means Thomas has a front-row seat to those building, ragged little whining breaths, getting more and more desperate until he's almost panting with it, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Thomas wants to _see_ him, wants to _see_ his fingers pushing insistently into his own tight little hole, wants to sit over to one side and just make him touch himself while Thomas watches. He wants Hamilton tied face-down in his bed so that he can make him come just from the push of Thomas’s own fingers into him, until he’s shaking and spent and then Thomas wants to fuck him through the aftershocks that he’s always so keen to chase down but never does. Thomas wants to lay him down and spank him again, over and _over_ until he comes all over himself, because he’d obviously been _so damn close_ , writhing and moaning and so fucking _pretty_. Thomas wants Hamilton forced wide open while he drives him insane with his tongue inside and out, wants him bent and spread over his desk, gagged to keep him quiet even though it definitely _wouldn’t_. Thomas wants him straddled in his lap, letting out those breathless, high moans while he fucks himself on Thomas’s cock, head back and blissed out like when he has his eyes closed around Thomas in his mouth. He wants Hamilton’s bare skin pressed up against his own, wants to bury his hands in the perpetual fucking mess of his hair, wants him shivering and shuddering and crying out around him, over him, under him, again, and again and _again-_

Christ, Thomas just fucking _wants_ him-

Shit.

Wait.

Thomas just _wants_ him.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he coughs out, hand stuttering, mind singularly blank and ringing for a second before the persistent, pulsing red-hot heat low in his belly is enough to distract and his cock throbs heavy in his own grip as Hamilton gasps out something that sounds like _motherfu-_ and he sounds- he sounds-

“Sound so _good_ ,” Thomas says, hoarse and rough even to himself, spits it quick so he can get the words out and get back to hearing Hamilton moan in his ear. “Sound so fuckin’ _ready_ for it. Can’t feel me anymore, huh?”

_I want to feel you for a fucking week_ , Hamilton had sobbed, begging for Thomas’s cock, broken open and uninhibited and so, _so_ fucking hot, but it’s been too long now and he whines out a _no, I want to- want you to-_ and Thomas feels like sobbing himself.

“Yeah you’d let me, wouldn’t you, even now. Could jus’ slide into you right now and you’d fuckin’ _let me_ , could show up in the middle of the night outta’ nowhere, wouldn’t need to fuckin’ talk about _any_ of this shit, jus’ _fuck you until you-_ ” It’s half past three in the morning and Thomas is drunk and half naked on his own couch half a city away, but when Hamilton chokes out, _yes, yes, fuck, please,_ he’s damned if he isn’t more than tempted to get the fuck up and go over there anyway, except he can already hear those ragged breaths quickening tellingly, how they break on a whimper with every one as he rides the edge and _fuck_ , it’s not a convenience thing, or a desperation thing, or a _stress relief_ thing; Thomas _wants_ him. “S’it baby, come for me-”

Thomas winds up emulating Hamilton for once, sinks his teeth deep into his own lip to keep from groaning as he comes all over his fist, wants to hear every second of Hamilton sobbing sweet and breathy through his own climax, too fucking far away but right into his ear and then the tight, pained little noises of pleasure that follow afterward for a while. He imagines Hamilton insistently fucking his fingers through his aftershocks, too-sensitive and raw and Thomas twitches as he strokes himself through his own just to match him.

“Miss your fuckin’ mouth,” Thomas mutters to himself a few minutes later, tries to tell himself he still only means it in _this_ context, and then when he realizes he can definitely still hear Hamilton’s wobbly, apprehensive breathing on the other end he needs to tell Hamilton that, too, just so there’s no confusion. “Jus’ wrapped around me. Could prob’ly get me to sign y’fuckin’ bullshit if you just negotiated like _that_ -”

“No I _couldn’t_. Because I fucking _won’t_ ,” Hamilton says, hoarse and tight and still a little high pitched, and then makes an irritated little grumbling noise to himself before he inhales audibly. “Look, I’m just gonna pretend you’re so wasted that you didn’t even say that at all. Christ you- If you actually wanna _negotiate_ , call me in the goddamn morning would you, and we can do this when I don’t feel like I’m gonna be cheating and seeing all your fucking cards. _Fuck, Alex you stupid-_ ”

He hangs up abruptly.

_Fuck_.

Thomas doesn’t call him in the morning.

* * *

_[Hamilton] -_ Do you think you can manage not being an asshole for a single evening  
 _[Hamilton] -_ There is some sensitive information you need to see  
 _[Hamilton] -_ In person  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Recommend you bring Madison so that we have a witness present to deter from outright bloodshed  
 _[Hamilton] -_ I’m joking but I’m also serious. Unlike your sensibilities, this is important

* * *

James calls him not ten minutes after Thomas takes a screencap of the messages and sends it to him.

“Sensitive information?” he asks, by way of a greeting, and Thomas puffs out a perplexed breath.

“I have _no_ idea Jem,” he says, and runs a hand over his face like when he uncovers his eyes he’ll suddenly be able to see this in a different light. Like one where he’s supposed to be pleased that Hamilton’s finally opened the door, except even in pixel form his tone puts Thomas on edge. “He must really not want to incriminate himself in writing."

“You think he’s genuine, then?” James asks suspiciously, and Thomas catches himself before he starts doing something weird like being offended on Hamilton’s behalf.

“I think something has genuinely rattled him into wanting to open up a discussion,” he says carefully, and then rubs at his eyes again and concedes the point. “Though I suppose that doesn’t mean it’s anything _actually_ important. Could be anything from embezzlement to hearing they’ve switched the coffee brand while he’s off.” James huffs a short laugh, and Thomas hears the sound of a door closing on the other end of the line, imagines James getting up and shutting the one to his office, always mindful of big ears listening in, even though his assistant is the most meek, bland young man in the history of the world. Indulging in a little corporate espionage might actually do him some good.

He sighs, and the purposeful tone to it has Thomas tensing because it’s as one sounds preparing to rip off a particularly painfully-placed band-aid. “Thomas- I’m getting the impression here that Washington is behind him on this.” Thomas can almost feel his grimace down the phone. “Company charter’s going to prevent him from coming out and _forcing_ it on us but some of the things he’s approving- well. It’s obviously where he expects to be headed. I think it's clear now that you’re going to have to do this.”

Thomas glares darkly at his sidetable, because of course he does. Of course Washington is behind Hamilton. It’s nothing more than Thomas already knows, he’d already known he’d have to give in, but it still sends that familiar wave of annoyance through him at the blatant, unrepentant preference the man gives his protégé, and even though he can just about - _very reluctantly, and only to James in complete confidence as they confer_ \- concede that Hamilton _has_ a point and that some kind of overhaul _may_ be necessary, he would really rather the control of that system not to be placed in the hands of someone who has that much sway, has the ear of the entire goddamn company already.

Hamilton in charge. Far too dangerous.

“We won’t tell him that though, eh?” James says, when Thomas stiffly admits that Hamilton’s plan has at least _some_ merit. “He’s still got to look like he worked for it. Adams is holding off purely because he can, because _we_ are, and I hate to say it but all these vultures are watching to see how the hell this is going to work out. We can’t come away with nothing here. He’ll either have to concede some of the more extreme areas of his agenda or compromise in another arena altogether in exchange.”

“He won’t compromise on his agenda,” Thomas sighs, because he knows that much already without having to ask. “His plan is his plan and I really don’t feel like listening to three hours worth of patronizing analogies about watchmaking or mechanical engineering as he tries to talk around why exactly he _definitely can’t change it_ because it will all fall spectacularly apart-”

“Then he’ll have to give us something else. And big,” James breaks in, and then snorts to himself. “-and I _don’t_ mean-”

“Please don’t,” Thomas grits out, instantly defensive, because it’s just the way of his life right now that he’d been drunk enough Saturday night to feel like shit on Sunday morning but not drunk enough to forget absently half-suggesting that Hamilton suck him off in exchange for his signature, surely too soon after _that fight_ to have felt like anything other than salt in a raw wound and he’s never going to get his dick back in Hamilton’s mouth if he doesn’t stop putting his feet in his own. “It’s not like that.”

The stiffness in his spine must be evident in his voice because James is softer and more cautious when he replies. “I know, I was only teasing. Is everything alright?”

“Yes, fine,” Thomas mutters.

“Are you sure?” James presses, sounding like he’s frowning, that serious _you-know-I-care-about-you-very-much_ frown and Thomas grimaces in embarrassment in response, even without him here in person and bites down the urge to babble until he feels better; _no I’m not sure, because I maybe drunk dialed Hamilton essentially just to tell him how much I want to fuck him which apparently is quite a lot, and quite often, and seemingly not the casual, colleague-with-benefits, putting-him-in-his-place situation that I thought it was unless that place is in my bed, all the fucking time, fucking Christ, please help me-_

He doesn’t understand why it feels like such a conscious difference, that realization that he can’t seem to force himself to forget, the notion of _wanting_ Hamilton, because it shouldn’t feel different, because it’s all physical lust, all testosterone and serotonin and nothing more. Logically it shouldn’t feel different at all because of course he does, because _of course_ Thomas wants to fuck him, because why the fuck _would he_ if he _didn’t_ want to, except recognizing it _does_ feel different, something separate and above the passive act of _taking what’s good while it comes_ , somehow replaced when he wasn’t looking with a pressing desire to _consume_ everything he’s offered and then demand _more_ and there's an element to actively _wanting_ that suggests a level of investment, of giving a shit whether he _gets_ what he wants and he doesn't really know how to process the implication of that.

“Yes I’m sure, _momma_ ,” he says, instead of voicing any of his turmoil, lets the accent and the eyeroll slip through instead of coughing up, because it’s too fresh to examine, and even in James’s _understanding_ voice Thomas will be able to hear the _I told you_ so loud and fucking clear. “What else are the vultures saying?”

James humors him and chuckles under his breath. “The rumor mill loves this mini-sabbatical, you know. Half of the building thinks you two have eloped and the other half are convinced Hamilton’s being charged with your bloody murder. I’ve never seen Angelica laugh so much.”

“I’m so glad somebody is enjoying this,” Thomas says flatly. “-and I’m also concerned that _those_ are the two most plausible scenarios.”

“Let’s see how this dinner goes before you disparage the water-cooler gossip. If I’m identifying your remains this time tomorrow half of the office is going to be spot on.”

“He’s not going to _murder_ me,” Thomas snorts. “Whatever this bullshit is, he’s using it to excuse coming to _me_ to negotiate. I'm already on the up. Besides, we’re going to compile a list of concessions that we find appropriate in exchange for his ridiculous draft and offer them up unprompted. He’ll likely still be expecting quite an argument and so if we're going to have to do this it’ll be amusing to pull _that_ out from under him at least-”

“Honestly Thomas, would it kill you to stop pulling his pigtails for once? This might go a little smoother if you did,” James sighs, and Thomas feels his mouth twitch involuntarily, because he suspects Hamilton would actually be incredibly put out with him if he stopped pulling on his hair, but nobody else needs to know that, and so he shrugs, even though James can’t see him and tries not to think about how much he wants to do just that, sink his hands into soft hair and tug until-

Business.

Negotiation.

Right.

* * *

_[T.J] -_ Dinner tonight at my place. 7pm  
 _[T.J] -_ Don’t bring wine. I don’t trust your taste  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Fuck you very much  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Fine  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Madison?  
 _[T.J] -_ He’ll be there  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Good

* * *

“Alright,” Thomas says, pouring three glasses of his finest as they sit down to dinner. He takes a second to look at the grim set of Hamilton’s jaw and casually adds a little more to each, just to be sure, because Hamilton’s hands have had a slight tremor in them since he’d arrived a few minutes ago and he can practically see the waves of upset coming from him, so he assumes they’re going to need it. “Sensitive information; _elaborate_.”

Hamilton blinks, like he’d somehow _not_ expected to be asked about the very bait he’d dangled in order to arrange this meeting, or maybe that he’d not expected to have to jump straight in but Thomas isn’t one for procrastinating and the longer he and Hamilton have to be anything approaching nice to each other the less chance there is of them coming to an agreement this evening and so he wants to get down to it before real insults start flying.

Hamilton looks exactly like Thomas thought he would, tense and wearing around the edges, tight around the eyes, but still burning bright enough that he’d rolled them and said _who puts on a suit to sit in their own fucking apartment, Jefferson, Jesus_ when Thomas had opened the door to him in a button-down that maybe used to be white once-upon-a-time, sleeves up to his elbows and far-too-tight jeans with a hole in the knee that Thomas has definitely _never_ laid eyes on before and actually can’t bring himself to look at properly in case he doesn’t look anywhere else for the rest of the evening.

He can’t afford to give away leverage like that.

For all he knows, Hamilton is wearing the damn things on purpose.

“Look,” Hamilton says slowly, bites at his own lip as he considers, and Thomas is so distracted by the unhappy set of the rest of his mouth that he can’t even appreciate it fully, until he sighs and blurts out; “I shouldn’t know this, alright?”

Thomas rolls his eyes even as James inclines his head thoughtfully. “We gathered. Alexander, I don’t believe anyone needs to know any of the particulars aired, pertaining to any agreement reached, and anything else that might be necessary in the discussion of such, you see?”

Hamilton nods, _fucking lawyers_ , but reaches into his bag to pull his laptop out and open and as he viciously taps a few keys Thomas is suddenly incredibly glad that James is here to mediate, even with the unpleasantness curling in his stomach at the way he freely says _Alexander_ , more intimate somehow than Thomas has ever been with Hamilton even having been inside him.

He takes the laptop when Hamilton shoves it over the side of the table at him, movement sharp and posture stiff, frowns at the _WashInd_ letterhead he’s greeted with, because he hadn’t exactly expected there to be an actual, _company_ problem, but there it is, in black and white, an application for use of Seabury’s research facility by-

“ _That guy?_ ” Thomas scowls, narrows eyes at the screen and scrolls down because the name there is one of the most problematic assholes on the entire East Coast, and what the fuck kind of backward-ass _private research_ is he expecting to be allowed to-

“Opiate use in conjunction with cognitive behavioral and hypnotherapy in order to treat a range of _syndromes_ ,” Hamilton grits, and the pronounced air-quotes around the word leaves no question as to the lack of validity in the term. “Motherfucker wants to try and _drug the gay away_ , among other bullsh-”

James chokes on a bite of steak either at the curse or the suggestion or the sheer vehemence with which Hamilton spits the words and Thomas suddenly understands exactly why the guy’s at his door demanding that they sort this debacle immediately so that Thomas can go back to work and swiftly kick this to the curb before it gains any merit, or _god forbid_ , any legitimate media attention that it had even _looked_ like they’d entertained this proposal because no PR team in the damn country could put a positive spin on _that_. “I see.”

“ _Do_ you?” Hamilton asks sharply. “You see the fucking date on it? Seabury marked this piece of shit as meriting attention over a month ago. Once that douchebag’s supposedly filtered out the garbage how long do these proposals usually take to reach you, huh?”

Within a week, at most, is the answer. Within a week of receiving applications and vetting them for suitability they wind up on Thomas’s desk for his team to investigate and authorize. Not a damn _month_ , and it’s a real fucking _coincidence_ that this study has been conveniently held back.

“So he’s been sitting on it,” James says firmly, when Thomas explains this. “-and surely because Thomas would never approve this tripe.”

“Obviously,” Hamilton huffs, and even through the building anger something tweaks at Thomas’s insides at the certainty in his tone, and for some godforsaken reason he sort of wants to laugh, because maybe all they need is to always have someone or something they actually, fervently mutually dislike in order to put into perspective that their bickering childishness is not hatred, or even anything close. “Besides, it didn’t even go through your office like it’s meant to. This bullshit sat around for a fucking _month_ and then went straight from Seabury to _Adams_ , not three damn days after we were _given a vacation_. Technically that chain of approval's correct right now but tell me I’m not the only one who thinks that’s a _real fucking weird coincidence._ ”

He’s not, of course, it’s dirty and _being snuck in through his own fucking department at Thomas’s expense_ and James makes a disapproving noise in his throat.

“What the hell is Adams getting out of this?” James frowns, and Hamilton reaches for the laptop and clicks a few more times before spinning it back around to show what looks like a Facebook page.

“I presume a significant proportion of the outrageous kickback Seabury _clearly_ thinks he’s getting from that twisted motherfucker. This idiot still lives with his fucking mom in a two-bed place out in the ass-end of nowhere and yet just bought himself a brand new Maserati on pay-later that he’s flashing like it’s going to help him with his game, like _anyone’s_ gonna take a ride on _that_ face whether it's in the back of a hundred-thousand-dollar car or not.” He makes an irritated noise and balls his fists like he does when he’s trying not to pull on his hair in annoyance and frustration, and Thomas doesn’t really know what to do with the fact that he can identify that tic so specifically by sight, now. “ _Shit,_ I hate when people are so deliberately fucking _stupid_.”

He glares darkly at the back of the laptop like it’s personally offended him, and James clicks his tongue in disgust. Thomas is struck with the odd feeling that for once, the three of them are in complete agreement. The politics of business is a messy thing sometimes, but there are quid-pro-quo backroom deals and then there’s outright _taking bribes for favors_ and even _without_ the study being an offensive pile of trash this crosses so many of Thomas’s personal lines of _acceptable_ that it’s not even funny.

“He’s surely not going to approve it,” Thomas growls. “He must know we’d never actually go ahead-”

“Yeah he must, but he still _has_ ,” Hamilton snaps shortly “It’s gross to say, but it’s reasonably smart; when the contract goes through Burr's guys he'll get his little side bonus, and it's dated far back enough that it’ll just look like _you_ approved it and didn’t realize what it was at the time. When someone inevitably takes a second look and goes _fuck no, how did this slip through, we can’t be involved_ and severs it, what’s this douchebag gonna be able to do about it? Sue Adams to get his _bribe_ back? I think _not_ , and Adams gets off with a little extra cash for doing absolutely fucking nothing save for ticking a box.”

_And if anyone’s career takes a hit for it, it’s mine,_ Thomas thinks bitterly, and then blinks, suddenly thrown, because now he _doesn’t_ understand why Hamilton’s _at all_ going out of his way to bring this around when he knows damn well they’re never actually going to entertain the study, why the fuck he’s even _bothering_ because something like this could kick Thomas right in the balls and then Hamilton would surely be able to-

“This needs to be dealt with immediately,” James says, regarding them both seriously over his folded hands, obviously having reached the same conclusion as Thomas as to who would bear the brunt of the flak for this if it became public knowledge. He focuses on Hamilton for a second and Thomas wonders if he’s also a little confused by his motivations. “ _You_ don’t use it to undermine or question Thomas’s control over his department, and _we’ll_ forget you clearly have _access_ to this sort of thing.”

Hamilton nods once, face carefully blank as he reaches for his wine, though it’s not like Thomas can’t hazard a damn good guess how he's gotten a hold of this anyway, because his best friend has _carte blanche_ entry to the inner workings of their systems, and how fucking _antsy_ must Hamilton have been over the last two weeks to be desperate enough to sneak in through that proverbial back door to keep his beady little eye on things to have been able to catch this in the first place?

He wants to know, suddenly, whether inbetween all the memes Laurens is actually monitoring them all more closely than they’d think, or whether he even knows about this at all.

“Yeah, no shit,” Hamilton says, tipping his chair back on two legs until Thomas snaps _sit properly_ and then he grins like a misbehaving child happy they’ve gotten a reaction. “Look, let’s just do this, alright. Hit me. What do you want? What’s it going to take for you to sign it, _as is?”_

He smiles likes he’s ridiculously pleased with himself and Thomas almost laughs, because he’s fucking beat them to it, because he’s trying to pull the rug out from under them by sidestepping the fighting and coming off as agreeable, or as _agreeable_ as Hamilton ever actually gets, but of course they’re prepared, and Thomas swipes at his mouth with his napkin to hide his smirk, pulls out his notes, and flips it open.

“First, we need to talk about Thorne.”

* * *

“Are you fucking kidding me? You have the fucking nerve to ship _my_ top choice to fucking France and then sit there and ask me to endorse _yours_ -”

“Hamilton, how many times do I have to tell you, I never shipped the poor man anywhere, it’s not _my_ fault he wanted to get as far away from you as possible-”

“Fuck you. John Jay hasn’t got nearly the experience he needs-”

“He’s got plenty of experience. Stop making excuses just because he’s straight and married and isn’t going to let you flirt yourself into making him vote your way-”

“How very _dare_ you, I would _never_ -”

“Are you _actually_ going to make me revisit the strawberry incident-”

“Gentlemen, do I _really_ need to be here to listen to this-”

“Oh shut the fuck up Madison-”

“Not _now_ , James-”

* * *

“But it’s not _worth_ that-”

“It _is_ , Alexander. Please bear in mind that market research before I make an acquisition is a very large portion of my job-”

“Ha. Like he lets anybody do their own damn jobs without sticking his dirty little nose in-”

“Thomas, could you not-”

“Didn’t see anyone hitting _your_ buzzer, asshole-”

“I’m going to buy this company, Alexander. It’s exciting and I want it. Whatever it costs.”

“Okay, _okay_. Have whatever the fuck you want for it. At least try to get a bargain though would you? Don’t just shoot your wad like you’re Jefferson in _Prada_ -”

“Christ you’re completely vile-”

“Thank you.”

* * *

“If it makes you feel better he’s the best of a bad bunch for me anyway. He thinks his life will be easier if he doesn’t _outright disagree_ with you-”

“Obviously. Everybody’s lives would be easier if they didn’t disagree with me.”

“I’m sure. So?”

“Fine. _Fine_. I’ll endorse him. But if he bombs it’s on you-”

“The point of your endorsement is that if he bombs it’s on _you_. Better pull your socks up and make sure he doesn’t, hmm?”

“Oh fuck _off_ -”

“Watch it, that nearly actually _hit_ me-”

“It was meant to, don’t see how I even missed with the size of your fucking head-”

“Well if you weren't such a terrible shot-”

“Would the both of you _please_ focus-”

* * *

“So are you going to tell me what it is you really want?” Hamilton eventually asks, sitting back in his chair and tapping a fingertip against the half-full glass in his hand until the _dings_ echo a little too loudly in the following silence and he stops. Thomas raises and eyebrow at him.

“ _Whatever_ are you talking about?”

Hamilton scoffs and looks between he and James flatly, nods at the notes in front of Thomas. “I’m not a fucking idiot, Jefferson. These things are shit I’d really rather not give you, sure,” he pauses, seemingly trying to find the appropriate words to express himself without undoing the last two hours and sighs. “-but compared to what you’re openly compromising in terms of your _personal opinion_ in signing off on this scheme, they’re not nearly big enough. Don’t think I hadn’t noticed. Unless you’ve got a million other little things you’re about to ask for, there’s something you want that you didn’t come out of the gate with, I assume to make sure you got as much as you could by starting small, which, fair play. But I’m not fucking around anymore. What is it?”

Thomas looks at James, who nods, and so he swirls his wine and keeps his face calm. “I want you to switch your premises vote.”

Hamilton blinks, and Thomas sees momentary confusion cross his shrewd face before understanding follows, before he schools it blank, and he hadn’t considered this as a possibility, Thomas realizes. He’s probably run through some ideas of what Thomas might demand of him, but he’s not considered this; that Thomas would ask for something a little selfish, a little personal as opposed to business, and Hamilton had been right, Thomas _is_ compromising his personal feelings in order to sign this thing and there’s something gloriously, pleasingly petty in the satisfaction Thomas is taking right now in demanding Hamilton make a _personal compromise_ too.

Hamilton loves New York.

"You want me to put in for D.C.” Hamilton says carefully, a statement, not a question. Hamilton always works in statements, in facts. Even in his questions, there are facts. Not _is there something else you want_ but _there is something else, what is it?_

He frowns, and Thomas straightens, sits up in his chair and leans in, opens his mouth to drill down and go for the hard push but Hamilton gives him a distracted head shake and holds up a universal _give me a minute_ finger, blinks as his eyes go a little unfocused.

James half-shrugs and finishes his wine, pulls out his phone, no doubt to text Dolley that he’d hopefully be home soon because if they can agree on this-

But Thomas can’t keep from taking the opportunity to watch Hamilton _think_ , because it’s fascinating. He can almost _see_ the gears moving in the tiny twitches of his face. His hair has gone a little wispy and fuzzy at the temple, Thomas’s apartment a tad too humid in the mid-summer, even with the air con on, and it’s probably both that and the wine giving his cheeks that high, deep flush, eyes glazed and far-off, chewing on the corner of his lip as he turns Thomas’s demand over and over and over, clearly dissects it until he can work through all of the implications, and for the attention he’s currently paying to the rest of the room he could be a lightyear away, and maybe he _is_ , trying to think years ahead in order to assess whether any of his future agendas are going to suffer if he says _yes_ to this now, or maybe even trying to figure out a way this can still work out in his favor, if he can switch his vote but somehow keep them in New York and Thomas will have to cross that bridge when he comes to it, but he still wants the gratification of Hamilton taking the risk, of conceding something that’s actually _important_ to him, wants it announced so that _everybody_ damn well knows he submitted and _gave something up to Thomas-_

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Thomas asks, eyebrows raised. Hamilton nods slowly, eyes still unfocused somewhere over Thomas’s right shoulder, but resolve steadily settling into his posture. "That's it?"

“Yeah,” he says. “Did I fuckin’ stutter? Okay. _Fine_. You get an endorsement for John Jay, free reign on your overpriced Agri purchase, _fourteen_ ridiculously unnecessary marketing campaigns for your piece of shit tech, and a vote for D.C. Wanna try and rinse me for any-fucking-thing-else while we’re at it?”

“No, I think that’ll do it, thank you,” James smiles. “Look, nobody is even bleeding. Fantastic. I presume you’ve got your delightful document to hand to get this over with, Alexander?”

Hamilton snorts in spite of himself, leans down to pull a folder from his bag and slide it across the table to James, regards Thomas with an impassive expression as James signs with a swipe of his hand and so Thomas sees when a fraction of the tension ebbs from his posture.

“Not that this hasn’t been a thoroughly enjoyable evening, but I’m going to let you finish your drinks without me. I expect to see you both back in the office tomorrow morning,” James breezes as he sets the pen aside and Thomas looks down and sees James’s conspiculously empty glass next to their half-full ones like he’s meant to believe that’s a _coincidence_ , like James thinks he’s _helping_ , which is frustrating and actually incredibly _un_ -helpful, because Thomas has come to the smart and sane conclusion that he’s absolutely _not_ going there this evening with Hamilton.

He’s _not_ going to. Because Thomas _wants_ him. Because even sat there across the fucking table in those stupidly small jeans Hamilton’s generating a million more things Thomas wants to do to him; wants him up on the table or on his kitchen counter, spread as wide as that denim will allow around Thomas’s waist and feel it pull thin and tight around his ass, wants to make him sit there in that chair and rub off against his hand until he messes them up, wants to pull them down tight around his thighs and tease until he cries with frustration at not being able to move a fucking inch in them-

He’s _not_ going to, because if he’s learned anything from the last four months it’s that he’s not going to _work through this_. It’s that he’s going to want and want and _want;_ that a second fuck isn’t going to help him forget the first, it’s just going to make him want a third, a tenth, a _twentieth-_

He’s _not_ going to, because it would be the height of stupidity; allowing himself to go whistling down that path when he _knows_ Hamilton. Hamilton, who left the last time like the place was on fire after he’d gotten what he’d wanted, whose terrible attitude is apparently not as much of a deterrent as he’d thought it would be, as he’d _told_ _James it would be,_ and if Hamilton being _Hamilton_ isn’t enough to keep Thomas from _wanting_ , it’s not going to be enough to keep him from-

Well. _Wanting_.

Thomas _isn’t going to._

“You forgetting something?” Hamilton says flatly, after James has gone with a _Tom, do let me know if you need any assistance with that other situation,_ and Thomas has begun to tidy down the table just for something to do with his hands. Hamilton nudges the folder slightly with one of his own and Thomas rolls his eyes.

“For god’s- _fine,_ ” he sighs, drops back into his seat and adds his flourish to the sheet, looks up to find Hamilton watching him intently, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, even as he seems to go fluid and lax in his seat at the sight. For the first time he wonders if Hamilton requested James be here not just as a mediator to keep them from _killing_ each other, and _Thomas isn’t going to_ , but he’s ninety percent sure Hamilton’s getting hard purely on having Thomas finally _sign_ this piece of shit, because he’s a twisted, obsessive little fuck like that, and he can’t help pointing it out, even as he wants to find out if there’s even _room_ for his dick to swell in those jeans-

“Only _you_ would get off on winning an argument, Christ,” he scoffs, because he _is_ , because Hamilton pulls his lower lip in between his teeth, because it’s all over his face when he rolls his own eyes but doesn’t deny it.

“Wouldn’t consider this _winning,_ ” he says instead, wrinkling his nose, and Thomas doesn’t know if it makes it better or worse that they both feel like they’re losing.

“Can I ask you something?” Thomas says, unable to help himself, because this is _almost_ friendly, and because he keenly wants to deflect before he thinks any more about Hamilton’s dick. Hamilton flashes him a wary look and a _sure, you just did, didn't you_ that he ignores along with his better instincts, because it’s been rattling around in his head since he’d seen that fucking research proposal and not understood why the fuck Hamilton had brought it to him, because even being _Thomas Jefferson_ wouldn’t have protected him from the public backlash and the subsequent career setback; albeit probably not career- _ending_ for him the way it may have been for somebody else. Hamilton’s smart enough to _know_ this. If he’d just held out just a little longer until it was unsquashable-

There’s a damn high chance Hamilton could have easily gotten his way while Thomas was _persona non grata_ of the month without having to give away anything at all, just by doing fucking nothing and letting it happen. Why the fuck he’d used it as a shield to cover for his asking to negotiate instead of just _waiting,_ Thomas has no goddamn clue and it’s maddening. He can't fathom it. Had he just been so fucking _impatient_ that he couldn’t wait that long to get back into the office? Had he, somehow, despite how intelligent he is, _not_ anticipated that option? Had he-

Hamilton glares at him when Thomas tries to articulate this without suggesting that he actually go back on their agreement and do just that, and though it’s familiar, it's confusing, until he huffs; “Look, it’s one thing to use the last of your expensive, luxury coffee and pretend I didn’t, but it’s entirely another thing to just…watch you take a major fucking career hit for some garbage you wouldn’t ever have agreed to. I mean, you’re an asshole, but you’re not an _asshole._ ”

Thomas-

He-

That-

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Thomas blurts, and Hamilton scowls.

“Don’t get used to it. Besides, more importantly, I don’t want that piece of shit anywhere near us. I’ve put my goddamn blood, sweat and tears into this fucking company, I’m not risking that judgemental, offensive douchebag being forever associated with us just for the chance to fuck you over. You’re not _that_ important, you know-” He speaks too fast, insulting and blustering and grumbling to offset his obvious discomfort at whatever he thinks he’s given away by suggesting he’s an actual human being and that Thomas isn't actually the devil until he grinds to a halt and stops himself with a; “-and I was _told_ to work this shit out with you, so.”

Before he can mock the eloquence of ending a sentence on the word _so_ , it occurs to Thomas how much inflexion, how much _importance_ Hamilton has put on that last statement, how much stock he puts in those words; like they’re gospel, like they’re _law_. He remembers how wounded Hamilton had looked in that conference room being dismissed and he wonders for the first time whether it’s actually not the _company_ Hamilton is unwaveringly dedicated to; whether their boss knows the effect his approval has, whether that level of loyalty is what it is that has him keeping Hamilton around, even when he’s being a massive pain in the ass, because god knows Thomas is well aware that having any degree of power over that kind of force of nature is a heady, addictive feeling-

_Don’t go there._

Thomas _isn’t going to_ , except he still takes advantage of this weird twilight zone moment to ask _tell me how you even started_ and endures the flat look afterward that questions his motivations before Hamilton follows him through to the kitchen to finish his wine while Thomas cleans down to distract himself from the spread of Hamilton’s legs around the bar stool as he says _interned when it was King’s and Washington was VP and it was the absolute fucking worst_ and _Washington asked why I turned down their legal job offer and so I damn well told him_ and then _he offered me his assistant job instead and I was like, yo, did you not hear a single fucking word I just said this place is the pits-_

Thomas listens and snorts and says _please tell me you didn’t actually say ‘yo’ to George Washington_ and if Hamilton notices that he wipes down his stove top twice he doesn’t mention it.

Thomas _isn’t_ going to, except when Hamilton finishes his glass Thomas pulls out a fresh bottle instead of suggesting the guy get on his way, and Hamilton cocks his head and looks bemusedly at the label like he doesn’t understand.

“You know you don’t have to waste the good stuff on me, right?” he says, small, confused, frown in place, because there’s clearly only one reason he’s still here. “I’m pretty much a sure thing at this point.”

Thomas isn’t going to, except instead of correcting him, he scoffs. “As if you think I have anything in this apartment that isn’t _the good stuff,_ you little ingrate.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes and pushes the bottle away across the bar purposefully, bites his lip, and it’s already red and plump from the amount that he’s worried it between his teeth over dinner and Thomas has been thinking about that mouth for over a week and he knows damn well how good those lips look wrapped around him and so even though he _definitely isn’t going to,_ he steps up into that space Hamilton’s been keeping for him between his knees and slides his hands up tight denim.

Thomas isn’t going to, except Hamilton’s breath hitches at the contact and his eyes flutter closed and he sways forward into Thomas and when he opens them again he’s fucking shameless, looks up through lowered lashes and says _I think I behaved impeccably this evening, don’t you._

He’s _not going to,_ except instead of retorting _the fuck you did, you called me an asshole sixteen times and threw a chunk of Gouda at my head you shit,_ he only hums thoughtfully, because he can't really speak, because his mouth is already on Hamilton’s, his tongue is already running over that lip, he’s already biting it for himself, his hands are already tight in neatly-tied-back hair and when he tugs like he’s thought about doing all night Hamilton’s head falls back on a moan and his legs fall as open as they can in those fucking jeans; bares his neck and his body to Thomas so obviously that he may as well just outright say _have at it_ and Thomas groans into his mouth-

_Shit_.

He's definitely going to.

But-

“Here's the deal,” Thomas growls, proposing their second - _and more important_ \- of the evening, angling Hamilton’s head so he can pull back and look at him properly. “-you wanna fuck, you’re gonna damn well stick around for more than a minute f-”

“What, you wanna have a sleepover and braid my fuckin’ hair and gossip about all the people at work we don’t like?” Hamilton snorts and rolls his eyes, and tugs against the grip on his hair, probably just to feel the sting because he makes a pleased little noise that Thomas definitely doesn’t want to hear again immediately. “-oh wait a minute. That’s _each other_ -”

“- _aftercare_ ,” Thomas says flatly, ignoring both his words and the unruly thought that occurs to him that he can’t really remember the last time besides _that fight_ that he actively _disliked_ Hamilton. “You don’t just leave before I know that you’re alr-”

Hamilton scoffs. “I don’t _need_ -”

“I don’t care what excuses you think are acceptable for compromising your own safety,” Thomas frowns, and steps back, because he needs some actual air between them, needs Hamilton to agree to this before he loses track of why he’s even demanding it in the first place; that sinking, anxious, guilty feeling he’d nursed for days. “As you are so very kind as to tell me, often, _not everything is about you_. _I_ need to not be the asshole who brings somebody down and then lets them fuck off without their head on straight, no matter _who_ the hell they are.”

Hamilton blinks at him for a long moment before his eyebrows go up in consideration and his lips twist as he weighs his options and Thomas watches in dark fascination because _really, what’s the fucking problem, would you really hate it that much-_

Except before he can ask, Hamilton slides down from the stool and presses himself back against Thomas, tilts his head up. “Fine. _Fine_. I’ll stay for an _appropriate_ amount of aftercare.”

Thomas almost rolls his eyes, because Hamilton’s always such a fucking _lawyer_ and something tells him they’re going to disagree on what constitutes _appropriate,_ but he looks up at Thomas and pulls that faux-innocence and soft, doe-eye thing that Thomas knows damn well is his standard seduction routine, has seen it aimed everywhere else enough, and even though he sort of prefers Hamilton’s real, belligerent, bratty attitude it’s still horrendously effective; sort of makes Thomas want to wrap him up tight and stroke him and somehow at the same time fuck him so hard he cries and it’s no surprise to him that the latter wins out.

Barely two weeks of just his own hand really shouldn’t feel like it’s been _that_ long, it’d been far longer than that _before_ Hamilton first got on his knees for him, but it does, feels like he’s starving and too-eager the minute Hamilton wriggles out of those damn jeans and spreads himself out on Thomas’s sheets. He’s _not_ behaved, not even anything close, but Thomas doesn’t have it in him to play for long, follows through on his promise from far too long ago and opens him up on the end of his tongue because if this second time happens to be the _last_ time then at least he’ll have the sight and feel of it to think about for the rest of time; Hamilton arching up, pushing his ass into Thomas’s mouth as his own goes lax, all _please, yes, fuck, more_ and helpless, garbled little whines for each press of his tongue inside, knees trembling under Thomas’s hands as he keeps them wide when they want to close. Not because he doesn’t want to feel Hamilton’s legs wrapped around his head, but because the sounds and jerky little motions Hamilton makes when Thomas smacks hard at his thigh and forces him open again each time are even better, until he eventually growls out _Jesus fucking Christ Hamilton, I’m gonna buy you a fucking spreader bar if you don’t stop it, that’ll teach you to stay where I put you_ and Hamilton shudders so hard Thomas almost thinks he might come just at the thought, as if he needed anything else to add to the list of things he wants; Alexander tied to a bar, writhing and desperate and sobbing-

If he’d been at all naive enough to suspect his memories of the first time were muddled and exaggerated by alcohol and novelty and the sting of how long it had been since he’d been inside of another person Thomas would be in trouble, because he doesn’t have those luxuries this time. Luckily he hadn’t been, and so he’s expecting it, albeit begrudgingly, when that initial push is as good as the first, when he’s glad Hamilton’s facing away from him so he doesn’t see Thomas’s eyes almost roll back in his head. It’s better than the first, actually, because Thomas is in complete control of the pace of it this time, without Hamilton surprising the shit out of him, can hold him open with one hand and put the other heavy on the center of his back where there’s a suspicious, browning mark he doesn’t want to fucking look at and so he covers it, holds him down and presses in so slowly that Hamilton balls the sheets in his fists and tosses his head and sobs out a pained _swear to fuckin' god Jefferson, there's corpses that could fuck faster than this you bastard-_ over his shoulder.

He’s damn lucky he feels so good, that the hot, tight, perfect squeeze of him around Thomas's cock has him feeling like he’s not come in about three years because any other time he’d take that as a challenge but he can’t bring himself to, not tonight, not when it's been two fucking weeks since he's had those noises in his ear, can only slam forward and give him exactly what he wants, hard and fast and unrelenting and driving him into the mattress, until Hamilton’s words are reduced to three or four lettered ones, until he’s shaking, until he comes apart into Thomas’s sheets, until Thomas leans over him while he’s twitching and fucks him through it, sucks his own damn mark over that fading one and tries not to recognize that this position is probably exactly how somebody made it in the first place, bent over and buried tight inside him-

Thomas doesn’t really want to examine the way he doesn't fight the urge to tug off the condom and finish on his back, or how much harder he comes on seeing that new bruise being covered in him.

There's not that much room for the both of them to share half the bed when Thomas tugs Hamilton out of his own mess and pulls him up against his side but he makes it work, watches his back rise and fall, watches his breathing settle from quick and panting and breaking on a whine every exhale to something marginally steadier, though he’s had enough experience with Alexander Hamilton at this point to recognize that he probably doesn’t ever calm down to the point of regular human breathing or brain function, unless he does it when he’s sleeping.

Thomas wouldn’t know about that.

Thomas does know when Hamilton starts to re-register the world around him because he starts to shift uncomfortably under the movement of Thomas’s fingers down his side instead of the absent, satisfied humming he’d been getting before then; the one of his ears Thomas can see goes red at the tip and his legs twitch against Thomas’s. He shifts again and mumbles _just gimme a sec alright, I’ll go in a minute-_

“Pretty sure you promised to stay put until I damn well said so,” Thomas grunts, presses down on his bare shoulder when he makes to move a moment later, and Hamilton makes a grumbling, displeased noise.

“-don’t think that’s what I actually _said,_ ” he mutters, almost petulantly but Thomas keeps his hand heavy on his shoulder, on his back, on the back of his neck, for another ten minutes or so while he weirdly alternates between tensing and unwinding over and over again because he’s a fucking lunatic who apparently can’t let himself relax even post-coitally, and waits for him to shift some more and stretch and peer blearily up with narrowed eyes before he removes his hand and speaks again.

“Do you want to shower first?” he says, enunciates almost pointedly, and Hamilton stares blankly at him for a long, long moment, nonplussed before he eventually says _oh_ and wrinkles his nose and shrugs one shoulder.

“Suppose I could, seeing as it feels like some asshole just got spunk all up my back,” he says offhand, because apparently not even a good orgasm can keep him from going five minutes without being _himself_ and Thomas rolls his eyes, finds him the guest towel he’d definitely not kept aside and tells himself he _can_ do this; because as Hamilton put it himself, he’s _pretty much a sure thing at this point_ so why the hell _can’t_ Thomas keep taking what he wants, as long as it aligns with what Hamilton wants, as long as he knows and remembers where the line is.

He’s somehow not surprised when the offer of a shower _is_ the line.

He’s also not surprised when Hamilton reappears uncomfortable and shifting on his feet and more flushed than the water temperature really warrants and Thomas takes his own shower just to give him what he obviously wants.

Nor is he surprised when after ten minutes he steps out to an empty apartment. 

* * *

_[T.J] -_ Bye then  
 _[T.J] -_ I hope you didn’t steal the good cutlery on your way out  
-  
 _[T.J] -_ Hamilton  
 _[T.J] -_ It’s been nearly an hour  
 _[T.J] -_ Surely you’re home now  
-  
 _[Hamilton] -_ No, I’m at the underpass three blocks down from my apt  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Selling your fancy silver spoons for blow  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Shame I couldn’t get the set, seems like there’s one missing  
 _[T.J] -_ Let me guess, it’s up my ass?  
 _[Hamilton] -_ ba-dum-tss  
 _[T.J] -_ You’re getting predictable  
 _[Hamilton] -_ As if you expect me to be able to be clever right now  
 _[T.J] -_ You’re welcome

* * *

From: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
To: S.Seabury@washindustries.com  
Subject: Application #000345

Samuel,

My apologies for the delay in responding to this application. It’s dated quite a while back; I must have missed it somehow. In any case, my team and I believe facilitating such an undertaking would be inappropriate and untimely in the current climate and as such we will not be continuing with this project.

Please pass on my sincerest regrets to the client,  
T. Jefferson  
Director of Operations  
Washington Industries 

* * *

If Thomas had needed any more convincing of Hamilton’s suspicions regarding Adams’ involvement in this research mess, he gets it the following morning, when he sits down at his desk like he’s not been gone for almost a fortnight and hunts out that document to swiftly kick it back with a _hell no_ and within the hour has John Adams peering around his office door as if he wants to confirm for himself that Thomas is indeed _here._

“Thomas, how nice to see you, my boy,” he smiles as he obviously lies through his teeth, and Thomas chews the inside of his mouth to keep from snapping, or smirking. He’s not sure which. “This is a surprise.”

“Is it? I was getting a little bored at home,” he smiles pleasantly and John raises an eyebrow.

“Did you-” he pauses and then clearly realizes he can’t in any reasonable way ask about a document he’s not meant to know anything about without implicating himself, because he shakes it off and stands up a little straighter, obviously writes off his payout as _too much effort_ as easy as that and it makes Thomas wonder why he’d even been greedy enough to bother. “Hamilton managed to sway you in the end then, did he?”

Thomas shrugs. “I must admit, he can be plenty convincing when he wants to be.”

“Yes, that _is_ what I’ve heard,” Adams says, and his expression is interested enough that Thomas slowly starts to regret his words. “I suppose George will be expecting me to get on with it too now. I do hope he at least gave you something good enough for all of our approval.”

“I think that’s probably best kept between him and me,” Thomas says smoothly, because that’s what they’d agreed until the vote is announced, but John’s smile gets smug and knowing. 

“Yes, _of course,_ ” he says, oddly suggestive, and Thomas frowns. “Well, welcome back, in any case. I’m sure you’ll catch up soon.”

He leaves before Thomas can decide if he was being pleasant or passive-agressive, now instantly suspicious of every word that comes out of the man’s mouth, and he never thought he’d see the day where he trusted _Hamilton_ only second to _James_ on something, but he supposes they’ve always worked best in a _the enemy of my enemy is my friend_ capacity, and so does this now make them _friends?_

He doesn’t know the answer to that any more than he knows the motivation behind Adams’ words and settles for making damn sure that by the time they reach the next day’s board meeting he _is_ mostly caught up, even though it takes the better part of the day into the evening and he’s not surprised either that when Hamilton’s mentioned in the meeting, when Washington graciously offers to pass his section by without presenting, that Hamilton frowns _that won’t be necessary sir, I’m perfectly ready thank you._

To his begrudging credit, Hamilton isn’t classless enough to gloat, in fact he doesn’t even outright mention the now-unanimous agreement he has to get started on consolidating their accounts, even though it’s implied and obvious in the way he announces the official project schedule for completing the merge in between some of his other updates, and so Thomas reciprocates the favor and doesn’t openly smirk his way when Burr reports a tie breaking change in their premises vote.

He’s not even looking in Hamilton’s direction, though he’s pretty sure the rest of the room is, if they aren’t looking to Thomas for a reaction, that is, and it must be clear now, the trade off they’ve made. Thomas isn’t looking at him, he’s looking down the table and so he’s able to see the way Washington goes still and serious and stony for a second before he smiles and declares that they’ll have to get started on that project soon, then, if they’re all finally decided. 

It’s surprising. Not because he wasn’t aware Washington had pressed to remain where they were, tied with the other shareholders about it to the point where they’d not agreed - though that fact alone had frustrated Thomas to no end at the time, because the man was so whipped he’d rather yield to where his wife had settled and wanted to stay rather than show some state loyalty - but because he’s suddenly sure that Hamilton’s given something away that he wasn’t supposed to, even though it was freely his to give. 

He’s even more sure of it at the end of the meeting, when Washington pulls him back with an _Alexander, a word please,_ and for once Thomas isn’t so resentful of that favoritism, because he thinks it maybe comes with a level of expectation he hadn’t previously realized, that Hamilton might be about to get chewed out for doing exactly what he’d damn well been _told_ to do; that order he’d been so determined to follow from a man whose approval he quite obviously bends over backward for.

And so Thomas is not really all that surprised when Hamilton comes to him a few hours later, light in his eyes looking a little dimmer, face a little strained, and doesn’t look him in the eye until he hits the floor and says _please can I, please let me, I want it_. 

They’ve been doing this long enough now that Thomas can see the tremor in the line of his jaw that tells him exactly what Hamilton wants this time, and he’s too busy being glad that he’s not ruined it with that comment, that fight, is too busy groaning at the almost-painful speed at which he gets on board with the request to even think about how he’d not needed to demand it, just holds on tight and thrusts up hard and watches Hamilton’s eyes glaze over and the tension slowly bleed from his shoulders little by little with every push between his lips and every _that’s it, just like that, doing so good, taking me so good, doll_.

If Hamilton lingers this time where he hasn’t before, once Thomas has spilled down his throat and sits spent against his cheek, forehead pressed against the inside of Thomas’s thigh for a minute before he inhales deep like he’s trying to suck in enough energy to face the entire rest of his day in one shot, well, Thomas doesn’t call him on it. 

* * *

“How on _Earth_ did you manage to get him to agree to something like that?” Burr asks, dropping into the seat across from Thomas and James having a morning tea, pinning Thomas with a burning gaze that makes him feel far too uncomfortable. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Thomas frowns, because he’s the third person since the board meeting two days ago to ask, even though Thomas is pretty damn sure that Hamilton got a lot more in their deal than he gave, even with the other concessions he’d made besides the vote that aren’t well known, and so shouldn’t it have been _Hamilton_ convincing _him,_ but when he voices this thought, Burr shakes his head.

“Alexander rarely does anything he doesn’t want to, regardless of the benefit to himself,” he says dryly, flicking open his paper. “I’ve been fighting that front for years. I suppose the next time I need him to listen I’ll have to seek advice from our resident _Alexander Hamilton whisperer._ ”

Beside Thomas, James makes a strangled, spluttering noise that fourteen years of etiquette classes should absolutely have trained out of him, and yet Thomas still has to drive his elbow into his side to make him stop being so fucking obvious. 

Though it confuses the fuck out of Thomas, Burr doesn’t seem to be alone in his opinion, and after the fourth time he’s asked if he’s _seen_ Hamilton, or _what kind of a mood he’s in this morning,_ Thomas stops entertaining those conversations at all, shuts them down with a steely glare until the perpetrator shifts awkwardly and makes a speedy effort to get lost, because he’s not the guy’s goddamn nursemaid or his secretary.

(Though Hamilton’s actual assistant is more likely to throw unsuspecting visitors into the shark’s tank at feeding time - the precarious ten minutes mid-morning at which point Hamilton’s early coffee cram has worn off but he’s not gotten his ten-thirty fix yet - and laugh at the tearful aftermath than actually give a helpful answer.)

It becomes somewhat of a myth and the office’s favorite new hushed-whisper talking point over the next week; the vicious fight and subsequent period of suspension after which Thomas and Hamilton can miraculously stand to converse for a good five-to-ten minutes, can actually work together without somebody screaming. Not even Thomas’s actual, physical presence stops the gossiping sometimes, like he’s oblivious enough that he won’t be able to extrapolate who they’re talking about if they don’t use his name, though he mostly hears what the grapevine _really_ thinks through Ben, who is an invaluable source of information because all of the women two floors down think he’s the most adorable, shy thing they’ve ever seen and ply Thomas’s assistant with cake in exchange for apparently wanting to know things like how many times Hamilton visits his office, for some godforsaken reason. 

Hamilton thinks it’s fucking _hilarious,_ of course, almost pisses himself when Thomas tells him the latest; that he's blackmailing Thomas with nudes of dubious authenticity, or that he’s somehow actually managed to clone Thomas and replace him with a brainwashed podperson programmed to agree with his every opinion. 

Thomas thinks _that_ one was a snide joke from someone who doesn’t appreciate Thomas’s caving, though it’s difficult to tell with some of the crazies downstairs.

“Oh my fucking _god,_ ” Hamilton cackles. “- _shit,_ how much easier would my life be if I could. Though I think I’d probably train your clone out of doing that snobby turned-up thing with his nose.”

“Fuck you,” Thomas sniffs, offended.

“Yes, that thing,” he snorts, and then purses his lips. “Actually, you think I could clone you more than once?”

Thomas takes one look at his cocked head and suddenly thoughtful face and rolls his eyes. “Christ, would you get out of the fucking gutter for once,” he says, and can’t tell if he’s more horrifically turned on or pathetically jealous of the imaginary clone versions of himself Hamilton is clearly picturing double-teaming him, breathing gone a little shallow and eyes wide when they meet his, but either way when Hamilton raises his eyebrows Thomas huffs out _oh for fuck’s sake, get over here you little freak_ because he’s not about to let that expression, eager arousal evident and unmistakable on his face, be seen leaving here.

Thomas can only imagine the gossip in the morning if he did. 

Except when Hamilton’s scrambled around the desk and got the head of Thomas’s dick laying on his tongue, flat and wide and open enough that Thomas can see where he’s slowly leaking and pooling in the dip of it, he suddenly pulls back against the grip on his hair, flexes his fingers in his pants on his thighs and Thomas almost short-circuits when he blurts; “Will you- I want you to come on my face, please.”

Oh fuck. 

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He blinks at Hamilton for so long that he starts to look wary and uncertain, even with Thomas’s cock twitching hard against his lips, which is absolutely not what he wants, it’s just that his brain is skipping like a scratched record over the words and the image already forming in his head and he’s too busy trying desperately not to actually fulfill the request prematurely, _right-the-fuck now_ , to be able to process whatever the fuck he’s done to convince Hamilton he’s not going to get mocked for saying it, but he’s grateful for it all the same.

He doesn’t miss the relief in Hamilton’s face when Thomas grips him tight and yanks him down, and it’s over too soon, but if he’s going to start saying things like _that_ Thomas doesn’t know how the fuck he’s expected to last all that long, anyway, and watching Hamilton close his eyes and bite his lip and come all over his own hand as Thomas holds him by the hair and gives him what he’s asked for is something he wants to burn into his memory to think about for the rest of time. 

Until after, that is, when Thomas has a tissue in hand and carefully wipes him down anywhere his tongue couldn’t reach, his eyes still closed and sighing happily, until he opens them, takes the tissue and says _thank you_ like this was some kind of weird transaction and doesn’t give Thomas a chance to correct him, or say _pleasure’s all mine_ or undo the sinking feeling in his gut because it actually _had_ been.

Well, at least the rumor mill doesn’t get a hold of _that._

The office gossip is right about one thing, though; there _is_ something different in the way they work, how they can go for ten minutes without snapping, and it’s almost like by some unwritten, unwitting agreement that they now try and cram as much into that ten minutes as they possibly can, like their tempers are on set timers instead of at their discretion, and though it’s fucking ridiculous it has the benefit of making those initial ten minutes the most productive, agreeable discussions they’ve ever had. 

Hamilton will flop down in the chair across from him and say _you were over budget this month,_ but instead of stopping there and inciting a fight he’ll spit out _it was the marketing and those two pieces of equipment that blew it, any way we can recoup that next month because I think you’ll need the excess later_ and instead of _maybe stop hovering like a helicopter parent monitoring my allowance_ Thomas will actually admit _we unexpectedly needed one of those machines early, so we won’t be spending on it next month as predicted, will the deduction of that work?_

It’s weird, but also pleasant, and it works.

That is, until one of them inevitably rolls their eyes and then all bets are off, then it’s back to sniping and sarcasm and bickering though the venom they’d lost before _that fight_ that Thomas had sort of worried would come back because of it, doesn’t. 

It leaves him feeling oddly warm, because even with a hint of genuine annoyance it’s almost joking, almost nice, and he’s not even all that surprised the week after they go back to work to have Hamilton tripping into his office at eight in the morning, snickering to himself and red-eyed in a way that suggests he’s been laughing for far too long as he shoves a takeout coffee cup Thomas’s way, collapses into the chair and pulls his legs up over the arm in a way Thomas used to hate but now sort of likes because it makes him think about all the other ways he could bend that body that is somehow far more flexible than any man who doesn’t do yoga has a right to be. 

“Are you trying to poison me? If you’re going to assassinate me at least do it to my face,” Thomas says dryly, eyeing the cup.

“The barista _literally_ asked me if I wanted one for _ass-stick guy again this time_ ,” Hamilton snorts, dissolving into the laughter he’s obviously been nursing all the way here. “How the _fuck_ was I meant to say no to that?”

Sure enough, when Thomas spins it round the words are written there in black marker and he rolls his eyes and fixes him with a stern look. “This is not becoming a _thing_ , Alexander.”

“Oh come on now,” Hamilton says, wiping his eyes. “You can always say it’s an _ironic_ stick-”

The highlighter Thomas pitches his way catches him right in the forehead, because _Thomas_ is not a terrible shot, and he’s about to tell him to go away and let him get on with his report except then Hamilton grins, even as he curses a blue streak and rubs his head, and it’s not one Thomas has ever seen before, because he’d remember it, because it’s really fucking _stupid_ , bright and goofy like he’s momentarily forgotten that grown adults don’t usually display that much of their utter delight all over their faces and something in Thomas’s chest flips over and pulls tight until he can’t breathe with how much he wants to just lean over and kiss him, just to feel that grin pressed up against his lips-

That's not to say- He isn't- He doesn't- 

Oh, _god._

He’s still staring dumbly at the corner of his desk trying to convince himself that that flickering, fluttering little thing in his gut isn’t at all what he thinks it might be when James swings by a half hour later and does a double take, drops a file on his desk and frowns.

“Everything alright, Tom?”

“Yeah,” Thomas blinks, swallows and makes a half hearted effort to justify what he thinks his face must look like. “Hamilton bought me coffee.”

“Right. I do know I said I’d not ask anymore,” James says carefully. “-but how is that...a problem?” 

“It’s not,” Thomas replies glumly, even though it really fucking is, and gives up trying to explain. 

He thinks this would probably be a really great opportunity to tell James exactly how far out of hand he’s somehow let this situation get, except if Thomas didn’t want he hear the _I told you so_ before he thinks James’s smugness would be off the chart to hear that Thomas thinks he might actually quite like to-

So he can’t. 

He needs to vent to somebody though, later that night when he’s alone in his apartment and freaking out in private and spending a truly pathetic amount of time wondering what Hamilton’s up to this evening, whether he’s even left the office yet, whether Thomas is sad enough to pretend to forget something and go back to see whether he feels like stopping by on his way home for a quick-

He tries Will, which might be a dick move on later reflection, but James is a no-go and Gilbert is far too close to Hamilton for Thomas to be remotely comfortable and he’s not exactly overflowing with extra friends whom he can call up and ask how the fuck he’s supposed to deal with this and who know him well enough to give an actual, insightful answer. 

_Have you considered, oh I don’t know, crazy thought, asking this unknown mystery man out for-_

So Will isn’t helpful for anything beyond an initial unload, either, because if there’s one thing Thomas is sure of, it’s that Hamilton’s made it damn clear where the line is, made it clear exactly what it is that he’s interested in, because Hamilton leaves as soon as he gets it, because he says things like _don’t be dumb, it’s just sex_ and _why the fuck are you trying to talk about it_ and _what, you wanna braid my fuckin’ hair._

Christ, he can almost imagine Hamilton’s mouth pursed and twitching trying not to laugh right in his face.

If he's even that polite. 

Absolutely _not_.

* * *

Thorne’s retirement party happens two weeks after Thomas returns to work, and although the man still has another two weeks before he officially leaves, Washington gets up and announces his replacement before giving his speech. 

When Hamilton’s eyes meet his across the function room Thomas smirks and raises a glass to him, completely unsurprised, because he’d known _exactly_ how this would go, because of course Washington would pick Jay. Of course he would; if _Hamilton_ recommended him. 

Hamilton flips him off, but tips his champagne Thomas’s way before he chucks it down in one go, and Thomas doesn’t even try to tell himself he’s _not going to_ this time, that he doesn’t know exactly where they’re headed the moment Angelica grabs him later in the evening after James leaves and he’s thinking about doing the same and all-but insists he join them for Friday-night drinks instead.

“-besides, Lafayette was only saying the other day that he’s not seen you in nearly three weeks, so you _have_ to,” Angelica railroads, even as Thomas flicks a glance at Hamilton and Laurens conspiring nearby. “-oh don’t mind those two. They’ll be nice.”

“We’ll _what_ now?” Laurens squawks, glaring between Thomas and Angelica. “Oh Ang, for fuck’s sa-”

“You’ll behave, the both of you,” she says flatly, and Hamilton barks an abrupt laugh, clearly before he can stop himself, shoves almost an entire fist in his mouth to stifle it, and Laurens spins to turn that betrayed glare his way until he gets himself under control and snorts _I’m not fucking promising that._ That black mood doesn’t seem to improve any when Hamilton cocks his head and hums, Laurens scowling at the back of his head as he shrugs.

“Huh. I _suppose_ you can come. But lose the tie.” 

Thomas glares. “What the fuck is wrong with my tie?” Hamilton’s own is pulled open and undone, gaudy red and hanging off his neck like it’s just begging for Thomas to wrap it tight around his slim wrists-

“Jefferson, if I can get away with wearing my sneakers in there, your two-hundred-dollar bullshit tie from _Armani_ or _Prada_ or _where-the-fuck-ever_ it’s from is basically asking for a fist to the face. Do you _want_ to get mugged, for Christ-”

“Oh _fine,_ ” Thomas groans and tugs at it, really not wanting to examine how fucking easily he’s beginning to cave to this ridiculousness for the sake of an easy life and a smile and for him to _stop talking_. “If it will shut you the fuck up, _there_. Is that better, _Your Highness?_ ”

Hamilton flicks his gaze to where Thomas has popped a button and pulled his collar open and loose and it stays there for a long moment at his neck, eyes amused and dark and appreciative before he looks back and smiles, smug and satisfied. “Much, actually.”

Thomas doesn’t really know what to do with that, because it’s almost a complement, because it’s _almost_ flirting in a public place, but then he doesn’t have to do anything with it because Laurens yanks Hamilton away by the arm before he can, and he’s never really reciprocated Laurens’ animosity but he can’t help but start now because he’s somehow not allowed to get all that close to Hamilton for most of the rest of the evening, sandwiched in the booth between Peggy and Gilbert and ends up half listening to his friend lament his latest failed kitchen experiment and half helping Peggy swipe through her Tinder matches though he doesn’t understand her criteria at all.

“She doesn’t _have_ any,” Hamilton butts in from his side of the table when he eventually has to ask, and Peggy turns her phone right around to show him something. “Pegs, the screen’s black, what the fuck am I meant to be looking at?”

“A hypocrite,” she says, and Hamilton throws a peanut at her, before she turns back to Thomas with a huff. “I want someone respectable-looking enough to fake-date so that my family leave me alone at Angelica’s engagement party and don’t try and tell me about every _nice young lady who enjoys woodworking_ that they know from back home like they think _that_ means they’re queer.”

“And you’re looking for _respectable_ on Tinder?” Thomas frowns, and Peggy looks at him, nonplussed.

“Respectable- _looking._ Like I’m not gonna wanna get laid after an entire evening with my extended family and an open bar? I gotta find a rare middle ground here.”

“Is it too late to fake-break my leg and get out of this party,” Laurens pouts, leaning forward to shoot pleading eyes between Eliza and Angelica. “-because she’s not making it sound fun-”

“You’re not fake-breaking your leg,” Mulligan sighs, with the air of someone who has to shoot down nonsense like this far too often. “I only just finished tailoring your suit.”

“Think _bigger,_ Jack,” Hamilton says, elbowing him in the side and shaking his head, mouth twitching. “I’ll push you down the stairs and we’ll _real-_ break your leg-”

“ _No,_ ” Angelica snorts, even though Thomas is…seventy percent sure Hamilton’s joking. “Nobody’s breaking anything. You two idiots _have_ to come, you’re my ushers.”

“Yeah, _alright,_ ” Laurens scoffs, and then pauses. “Hang on, really?”

“Obviously. Have I not told you yet?” Angelica sighs, with a small smile that says she knows damn well she hasn’t. “Like I could have you two following Eliza around for the last decade and _not_ have you in my-”

“Wait, wait, _wait,_ hold the fucking phone, _what the fuck-_ ” Hamilton blinks beside her, and for some reason he looks over at Thomas for a second like Thomas knows anything about this and it’s enough to be able to tell he’s completely thrown. “-that’s like, a real _thing,_ isn’t it?”

“Yes, Alex,” she says patiently, and leans in to kiss his cheek. Thomas can’t hear what he mumbles to her from where he is across the table but she chuckles. “-stop being an idiot, please. I want to.”

“Oh,” Hamilton says eloquently while Laurens thanks her, and then says nothing else, face flushed, arms moving under the table like he’s rubbing his hands reflexively on his pants, utterly fucking flustered at the obviously unexpected affection and it’s the most tragically charming thing Thomas has seen in-

Well. Longer than he cares to remember.

Christ.

“You really want to thank me, you can both actually make an effort to bring a date to the wedding instead of propping up the bar with my sister,” Angelica teases. “-and _each other_ doesn’t count.”

“Do I have to? Is that some kind of _rule?_ ” Hamilton frowns, and then, like he’s realized he has no actual clue what an usher _does,_ pulls out his phone and starts typing, waves an errant hand. “Jack’ll bring a date.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she sighs. “I wasn’t really talking to him. _Alex._ Date. Bring one.”

Laurens snorts. 

“ _Are_ you making it a rule? ‘Cause that’s the only way you’re getting _that,_ ” he says dryly, butts in before Hamilton can even answer her, and Thomas doesn’t know what Laurens knows, or doesn’t know, or _thinks_ he knows but when he glances up Laurens is suddenly looking right at him, stares Thomas dead in the eye, even as he speaks to Hamilton, careful and light and pointed. “What was it you said the other week, Lex? _Booty call with a side of unnecessary bullshit?_ ”

It’s nothing more than exactly what Thomas expects, why he’d not even entertained Will’s suggestion, what he’d already damn well known Hamilton’s opinion to be, and so he’s not sure why the reminder of it stings so much but it does, stings and twists in his stomach unpleasantly along with the dislike building both there and in his clenched fists, and he sort of wants to break John Laurens' smarmy, asshole nose for rubbing Thomas’s in it.

“Yeah, that sounds like something I’d say-" Hamilton mumbles distractedly with a shrug, flicking through his phone. “-don’t do bullshit... _hey._ Ang, these guys are dressed up like _actual fucking penguins-_ ”

He turns to her and shoves the phone up in her face and Laurens finally cocks his head at Thomas, nods to himself and drops his gaze, peers absently over Alexander’s shoulder to see what he’s looking at. 

Thomas thinks he maybe hates him a bit.

He thinks about saying something, or dragging him outside by the collar and venting his frustration right into his face, because he’s _right_ and Thomas hates that almost as much as his rude, smug expression, except Hamilton’s still going a mile a minute, showing Angelica whatever he’s found and asking a million questions like he’s trying to combat his discomfort by knowing _every fucking thing_ about what’s expected of him _right the fuck now_ and it’s sort of pathetically endearing and so he doesn’t want to leave, even with Laurens sat there being a fucking dick, and Thomas is rewarded for his restraint a few moments later when Hamilton rambles out _what the fuck even is a cummerbund and are you gonna make me wear a bow tie because I don’t think I’m nearly asshole enough for that, I don’t even own one-_

“I do,” Laurens pipes up, like he's not realized his own implication, which at least amuses Thomas slightly. “I can-"

“ _Oh,_ ” Hamilton exclaims, delighted, completely ignores him and almost leans over the table toward Thomas, who can’t process the sudden swell of familiarity and warmth in his chest when he realizes he knows exactly what Hamilton is going to say and he almost laughs before he’s even gotten the words out. “ _Jefferson,_ I need you to lend me one of your atrociously pretentious bow ties, I _swear_ I will do my best to own my horrible fashion choice like a man and wear it in _complete seriousness-_ ”

“I haven’t even _decided-_ ” Angelica splutters, but Hamilton waves her down.

“I don’t think you do _anything_ in complete seriousness,” Thomas retorts dryly. “I swear to god if I hear you tell even one person you're wearing it _ironically_ -"

He’s petty enough that he’s not sure what it is that makes him feel better, that soothes the boiling in his gut, whether it’s the amused spark dancing in Hamilton’s eyes when he laughs or the obvious sulk Laurens works himself into afterward that his best friend is deigning to speak to Thomas socially in the first place.

Maybe it’s neither, maybe it’s the fact that when Gilbert slides out of the booth to get a celebratory round in, Angelica is quick to hop out and shove Hamilton over his way with a _Thomas will explain what a cummerbund is for, just leave me alone_ and Hamilton’s obviously high-spirited enough right now that he doesn’t object, gamely squishes in beside Thomas with a deadpan _I suppose this is page twenty-three in the rich kid welcome pack huh_ but actually pays attention, even though Thomas is sure Angelica is definitely _not_ going to make him wear one. He’s not about to say that, though, because he’s apparently, horrifically, far too pleased to have Hamilton’s knee knocking against his in an open, public forum, have him pressed up against Thomas from thigh to shoulder and the too-sweet smell of his shampoo in his space as Hamilton leans in to be able to hear him properly, and _fuck,_ he’s right there and _obviously game,_ and his best friend might be a fucking _dick_ and he might not _do bullshit_ but he’s damn well not leaving his side again until he crawls himself out of Thomas’s bed tonight. 

He knows it's not the smart choice, is only digging himself deeper, but he's damned if he does and he's damned if he doesn't, and Hamilton's high on the happiness of the evening, smiley and unusually relaxed and if he _doesn't_ then those loose limbs are going to end up wrapped around somebody else tonight and that's just not happening. It's Thomas or bust.

He tells Hamilton so, an hour or so later when he can’t stand the pull of it anymore, follows him on his way to the bar and drags him out where he knows it’s quiet, a depressingly familiar corridor he’s not likely to forget, presses him up tight against the wall and hears the breath catch in his throat when Thomas’s hands close around his hips, creeping under the hem of his shirt, and then feels the smothered laugh that rumbles through his chest as he registers where they are, even as he closes his eyes and tips his head back for Thomas’s access and the willingness he does it with has Thomas twitching in his pants. 

“ _Deja vu,_ ” Hamilton chuckles, and Thomas growls against his throat, moves one hand to fist the fabric over his ass until he inhales sharply. 

“Not quite. A few alterations this time. Nobody’s goddamn dick is out, for one-"

“More’s the pity,” Hamilton snorts, and Thomas slides his hand fully under his shirt, spreads his palm over the warm skin at the small of his back, suddenly wants to feel all the places he hasn’t got the time or the freedom to touch at the office, pulls him in tight until he makes a gratifyingly shaky noise, hips stuttering into Thomas’s as he plays along, adds his own spot-the-difference, amenable as he is like this. “M’not being watched by a fuckin’ _creeper-_ ”

“You’re enjoying this more than that,” Thomas pitches in, adding another, smug; can’t help himself because it’s true, because he can feel the evidence of it in how he’s practically vibrating under Thomas’s fingers, even without a hand on his cock, but instead of the denial or the comment on the size of his ego that he’s expecting, Hamilton just huffs another short laugh.

“Different company this time,” he says, and Thomas kind of wants to ask if he’s just throwing out another change or if it’s in direct correlation to his own but he doesn’t, because that’s surely edging into far too dangerous territory. 

“Gonna fuck you tonight,” Thomas murmurs into his ear, presses teeth against his tendon as he concludes the list, because it’s the biggest difference; that he knows how much he _wants to_ and that he knows damn well that he _will._

It’s not a question but Hamilton shudders and answers anyway, says _no shit,_ preoccupied and breathy, sigh bleeding into a moan as he shifts intently against Thomas, trying for friction, and leans up to bite Thomas’s lip and Thomas is momentarily too distracted by the hot press of his mouth to wonder if he’d meant it to sound so damn much like a foregone conclusion.

* * *

“How we doin’?” Thomas murmurs, lays himself out along Hamilton’s back to press it into his ear. “Alright?”

He doesn’t answer, hasn’t managed to form many _actual_ words since he’d cracked up _wait, I was joking before, is this actually fucking Prada, holy shit Jefferson you absolute tool-_ when Thomas had tied his wrists to the bed and listened to him laugh helplessly at the little triangle logo until he’d choked on his breath at the slick press of two of Thomas’s fingers at his hole, thick and probably a little painful and clearly just how he likes it because he’s been making the _happiest_ noises ever since. It’s been a while. If he didn’t look and sound so fucking good sweating into Thomas’s sheets as he takes them Thomas would have snapped and fucked him stupid by now.

As it is, he pulls them back until he gets a gasp, until he can feel the rim of him flexing and clenching and needy, fucks them in fast and hard once and then twice and when he pulls back again Hamilton makes a whining, keening noise. “I _asked_ you a _question-_ ”

“ _Yes,_ ” Hamilton mumbles, and then falls into a litany of _yes, yes, yes_ until he obviously realizes what he’s saying and bites it down. “You gonna- gonna get the fuck on with it and dick me at some point or-”

“Nah,” Thomas shrugs, gives him the two fingers back in reward and he’s so fucking _wet_ and _open_ and _willing_ that he adds a third easily, curls them into that spot until Hamilton whimpers and jerks and pushes back, and he _surely_ wants it dragged out until the end of time, goading like that, even though there’s a heavy sweetness building in Thomas’s own gut that says it’s not going to last as nearly as long as he sort of wants it to. “Might just keep going until I can fit my entire fuckin’ hand in your greedy little ass, how about that?”

Hamilton shudders and presses his face into the sheets and he isn’t in the greatest position for leverage; wrists tied to Thomas’s headboard, but he still somehow manages to roll his hips back into Thomas’s hand like he’s filming a fucking porno. Thomas has to stop and stare for a second to appreciate it, to commit it to memory, the way he moves when Thomas stills and keeps his hand steady and just watches him fuck himself on those three fingers; knees wide and ass up, back low and sloping, every inch of him taut with needy tension as he takes them in again and again and it’s quite possibly the prettiest, hottest fucking thing Thomas has ever seen, lovely little _ah, ah, ah_ moans punching out of him as he cants his hips just right and bottoms Thomas’s fingers out inside himself every time-

“ _-fucking Christ, Alexander,_ ” Thomas hisses, can’t get his voice much louder than that because he thinks it might come weaker than he’d like. “Look at you; look so fucking good like this baby. Look how much you _want_ it-”

Hamilton whines and drops his hips lower, rocks them just that bit more wantonly, either under his name or the praise or both and when Thomas skirts his pinkie around the rim of his hole, just for fun, just to see, he makes a noise that almost sounds like a _mewl-_

“ _Please,_ please, _fuck,_ just- I need- _please,_ ”

“How many times do we have to go through this?” Thomas says, tutting, and pinches his ass to see him squirm. “How am I supposed to know what you want if you don’t tell me, hmm? Please _what?”_

“ _Fuck,_ I need- I just need to come, please-”

“You want to _come_?” Thomas hums, and he _does_ look like he needs it, cock hanging heavy and red and dripping between his thighs and Thomas suddenly knows exactly which one of _his_ fantasies he wants, crooks his fingers and presses them deep, again and _again_ until Hamilton makes a noise like he’s maybe dying as he gets what he wants, spills into the sheets, squeezing and clenching around Thomas like a fucking vice, so tight his own cock throbs against the curve of his shaking ass. “Well, alright then, there you go.”

Hamilton sobs when Thomas pulls his fingers out, shakes his head against the pillow and pants _I want, I want_ and Thomas knows damn well what he wants, because it’s exactly what Thomas wants, but it doesn’t stop him from teasing, because the helpless little whining noises he makes when Thomas rubs himself along his still-flexing hole go straight to his balls.

“Was that _not_ what you wanted? You should really be more specific, Alexander,” he says, and snorts when Hamilton manages to spit out _oh fuck you_ before he tacks on _please,_ a little belatedly, and Thomas will give him a pass on that one. “Do you want to try again?”

Hamilton almost tries to push himself back onto Thomas before he realizes he’s not going to get anywhere with Thomas’s body pinning him down, and still twitching from his orgasm, because he draws in a shaky breath and chokes out; “ _fuck me, please,_ ”

“ _Good boy,_ ” Thomas mumurs, leans forward to feel the skin on the back of his neck bristle as he speaks there, and gives him a few inches, has to close his eyes at how easily he sinks in, how Hamilton jerks and squeezes reflexively around him. “Though I think you can do better than that, no? If you’re going to beg for my cock in you, Alexander, I think that warrants a first-name kind of basis, don’t you?”

It’s something that he doesn’t know he wants _so much_ until the words have left his mouth, and then when they have he can’t regret them because he _does,_ and because it’s not across the line, he can get away with asking for it, have it come off like a power play instead of suddenly, fiercely wanting to hear-

“ _Thomas,_ Thomas, fuck, _please-_ ”

It’s enough. it's enough to satisfy the thing roaring in his gut and his balls and his chest and it's enough that he doesn’t hold back any more, rocks his hips slow and steady and feels Hamilton clench and spasm around his cock like a vice, spreads himself over his back and sinks his teeth into a shoulder that twitches and shakes under his mouth and he thinks Hamilton might be straight up _sobbing_ into his pillow and he doesn’t _stop_ sobbing, cries out his oversensitivity even as he spreads his knees wider and pushes shuddering hips back to meet Thomas’s every time, over and over, faster and more harsh until he’s moaning and mostly hard again and _Christ,_ fucking Alexander Hamilton is going to be the death of him.

Thomas doesn’t even think he’d mind.

The noise Hamilton makes when Thomas wraps a hand around him and draws out his second climax is almost like he’s being _hurt,_ except he presses forward into Thomas’s hand and whimpers something that sounds like a garbled _oh fuck yes,_ and that, coupled with the way he tugs at his bound wrists as he does, like he _wants_ them to hurt finally pushes Thomas over the edge; the image of him walking around the offices with his shirt cuffs hiding bruised-up wrists combined with the sweet grip of his ass around Thomas as he comes apart again are his undoing, can’t help biting down hard on the back of his neck as he shudders through his own, pushes deep inside him with every pulse of it until he’s a wrecked, sweaty pile of limbs and Hamilton’s gasping for air underneath him.

He doesn’t want to move, after, but he does, obviously; unties Hamilton’s wrists and settles them both because Hamilton’s essentially fucking comatose, and even when he eventually rouses enough to turn his head marginally out of Thomas’s pillow and speak, it’s thick and sounds like his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth as he huffs out _oh my fuckin god_ and Thomas privately agrees.

Also, his ego is pretty happy with that, too.

Until Hamilton starts to shift, that is, and he frowns. “Stay the fuck _there_ a minute, I swear to god you leave now you’ll end up getting hit by a fucking _car_ or something, Jesus.”

Hamilton snorts, but it’s fuzzy and sleepy. “Someone’s fuckin’ full of themselves,” he mumbles.

“Yeah well, didn’t see you complaining about being full of me so it can’t be bad,” Thomas retorts, and his lips twitch when Hamilton’s shoulders shake with laughter in spite of himself and the hand slung careless on the pillow beside his head curls into a loose middle finger. “So-”

“Swear to god, if y’gonna try and swap secrets or read me y’fuckin’ diary or some shit m’just gonna take my chances with the cars-” Hamilton slurs, and Thomas instinctively presses down on the center of his back, even though he doesn’t actually make any move to, well, move.

“Fine, just- _fine,_ ” Thomas says, and lets up the pressure slightly, as slow, peaceful silence reigns and he finally basks in the afterglow.

It’s not until he chances carding his fingers through tangled hair - because Hamilton’s sort of started to like that after he comes, at least when he’s on his knees in the office - that he realizes that his back is moving slow and rhythmic and he’s _still;_ steady breathing and quiet little snuffles like he can’t quite _entirely_ shut the fuck up even when he’s obviously sleeping.

Thomas isn’t going to let him sleep long, _really,_ knows he won’t be thanked for it, but he’s honest enough to admit that he wants to take it in; wants to be able to picture how he looks like this, sprawled naked and sated in Thomas’s bed, bruises already darkening his wrists and still half flipping him off, because he’s just _too much_ for his own damn good, and he maybe gets lost in it for just a second, imagines that if Hamilton did _do bullshit_ like dating Thomas would maybe have bought him dinner, taken him to bed, woken in the morning to have him sleepy and stretching and probably demanding coffee, pushing his ass back interestedly for another go-

He’s not sure when it becomes dreaming, but he knows that it must do, because the next thing he really knows his clock is flashing bright neon 04:17 in the dark, and it’s _dark,_ because the light is suddenly off where it hadn’t been before, and he only really realizes that he’s alone when he registers that the noise that woke him was the familiar _clunk_ of his automatic lock clicking into place as his apartment door closes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Je t'ai cherché / I looked for you  
> Tu n'es pas le seul, quelle chance / You're not the only one, what luck  
>  putain, évidemment. Comment n'ai-je pas pensé à ça / damn, obviously. How did I not think of that  
> ça ne fait rien / it does not matter  
> imbécile têtu et menteur / stubborn fool and liar  
> mais non, ce matin mon ami est encore intolérable / but no, this morning my friend is still intolerable  
> ça ne fait rien / it does not matter  
> Oui, certainement cela / Yes, certainly that  
> ~  
> We're at 80k folks, somebody had to start feeling some _feelings_ and it ain't gonna be Alex 'cause that boy's dense af.  
> ~  
> When I joke-tagged _an overwhelming lack of communcication_ I wasn't kidding.  
> ~  
> So I think I'm going to take a small Christmas break but please don't think this is going anywhere. Check back in the New Year for Ch6.  
> ~  
> Dog people, don't @ me, okay. Puppies are cute as fuck but there is no way Thomas is a dog person.  
> ~  
> Also thanks to finishing this chapter I now want to write standalone Jamilton ft Alex working a phone-sex like to make extra cash and Thomas calling it all the fucking time and putting on a stupidly Southern accent so that he doesn't get found out. I'll just add that to the list of shit rattling around my brain.


	6. Chapter 6

Alex wakes up with something tickling lightly along the top of his bare shoulder and warm, rhythmic puffs of breath hitting the side of his neck and the heavy, sweaty press of a hand flat at the base of his spine and it’s only the bone-deep thrum of utter satisfaction that keeps him from throwing out a limb or two in disoriented surprise, though his eyes still snap open instantly as his brain tries to play catch-up until it’s finally working at the same rate as the sudden pounding in his chest, tense and on edge before he realizes what’s happened and where he is.

In his own defense, he’s not passed out after a hookup in _years,_ and that last occasion still fucking haunts him; the guy’s one, dirty-blond eyebrow cocked in surprise and his _oh, you’re still here_ as Alex blinked awake. Alex remembers trying to excuse himself with flattery; babbling on and on about how _good_ it must have been for him to wipe out like that, and the burning humiliation afterward when he’d gotten next-to-no response beyond _yeah, I_ _wasn’t really asking_ and had recognized the statement as less of an invitation for Alex to stroke his ego and much more of an invitation for Alex to kindly _fuck off._ Even now he can’t get within twenty minutes of that particular apartment block without coming out in metaphorical _hives._

It hadn’t even been all that great, Alex had just been awake for three straight days prior, trying to find a way to convince one of King’s partners to screw the guy over and sign an agreement with Washington instead, and he’d been fucking _exhausted._

(The time it had happened before that hadn’t been much better, waking up so damn hungover he couldn’t get away quick enough before there was suddenly coffee in his hand and breakfast on the stove while the guy asked him question upon question about things that made it clear he’d been paying far too much attention to whatever Alex had been raving about the night before while Alex just tried to avoid re-asking what his name had been. If he’d ever even asked for it in the first place.)

Jefferson’s obviously more likely to trend toward the awkward _you’ve overstayed your welcome_ than the awkward _let me make you a bacon sandwich_ given their shared history, but he counts his blessings anyway that it seems like Jefferson’s in the same boat as him; unmoving and sleep-warm, mashed up against Alex’s side, because that scathing _why are you still here_ eyebrow would probably be a hell of a lot more withering on a face _made_ for judging people, and because they’ve got a good thing going right now and Alex isn’t all that keen to kill it prematurely with awkwardness of either kind.

He doesn’t look all that judgemental, though, when Alex unburies his face and peels himself away and slides carefully out from under Jefferson’s hand, backs up just enough to turn around to check he’s still sleeping. He looks peaceful, and weirdly _soft_ without that detached air of being better than everybody else - or at least better than _Alex_ \- without that haughty expression turning up his nose or sharpening his gaze. It seems ridiculously ironic, actually, because up close like this where Alex can really _look,_ he maybe _is_ a little bit better than everybody else; long lashes framed against those cheekbones and _that_ jawline and Alex has only been in his bathroom once but once was enough to take in the truly _ludicrous_ amount of expensive product in there but money clearly _d_ _oes_ help with everything, because his skin is smooth and soft and _flawless-_

Alex wriggles away and bails before he can submit to that thought any further, because if he doesn’t want to have to try and excuse still being in Jefferson’s bed, he damn sure doesn’t want to have to try and justify _staring_ at him open-mouthed while he’s _sleeping_ if he wakes up any second.

Jesus.

He’s surprised to find that he’s the first one home, considering it’s almost dawn but it’s a relief, because then at least his slip isn’t evident when John sidles in a while later and frowns at him curled up on the couch getting his stock market update via podcast so that his hands are free to hold his coffee and scribble a few notes on the ones it’s time to flip. John’s mouth moves around something that looks like, _oh, you’re here,_ which can’t be right, because where the fuck _else_ would he expect Alex to be, and so he pulls out one earbud and scrunches his nose in confusion.

“What?”

John’s furrowed brow smooths out somewhat and he shakes his head. “How long’ve you been home?”

“Dunno, ages,” Alex lies, and he’s not sure why he does, except John had been a grouch all evening and he feels like regaling his best friend with how he’s really not long been home from coming his brains out into unconsciousness isn’t going to go down well. Besides, it’s not like anyone knows for sure where he’d gone. He’d bailed as they’d switched between one bar and another and strangely enough gotten a weird lack of protest from his friends as he did. He’d not been waiting even five minutes outside before a warm, firm hand had curled around the back of his neck, radiating heat right down his spine and he’s not even ashamed at how he’d melted into it or into the nearest cab that Jefferson had shoved him into, because who the fuck _could_ keep their shit together with that gritty, low _gonna fuck you tonight_ purring in their ear the entire evening. He’s mostly proud he didn’t climb straight into the guy’s lap in the back of the car considering how worked up he’d been, but not even the bliss of the instant gratification would have been worth the humiliation of having to admit Jefferson had gotten under his skin _that_ much. Again, though, he doesn’t need to tell John that, and so he doesn’t.

John doesn’t ask, either.

“Where’re the other two?” Alex asks instead, and hums appreciatively when John shrugs that they’d carried their party on to one of their more _restricted_ overnight clubs. Good for them. He’s almost too busy being a little disturbed to find that he’s not jealous that he missed going with them to notice John’s awkward, shifting feet. Alex pulls out his other earbud and roots around for the remote. “You wanna watch cartoons?”

It’s one of their older pastimes but it’s still a good one; nights out ending up too wired or buzzed to sleep, or deciding that being excessively tired was infinitely better than being excessively hungover, staying awake to sober up instead and seeing in the sunrise cross-legged on the couch with far-too-early-morning children’s cartoons and dry cereal straight from the box. Alex thinks he’s still got a half-box of Lucky Charms hanging out at the back of a cupboard, miraculously escaping Laf’s latest health binge purely on the grounds of _not_ pissing Alex off when he’s pre-coffee and hunting for sugar, but he doesn’t get time to say this, or to hop up and grab the box before John’s shaking his head.

“I need to sleep,” he says, and Alex opens his mouth to argue, to question, because his pupils are a little wilder than they should be and he’s clearly not _mellow_ enough to sleep, but John cuts him off with a scowl. “-you should too, y’know.”

“I already did,” Alex frowns, doesn’t mention where, or that it had been good enough of a brief rest that he’d gotten into his own bed, cold and weird smelling and gotten straight back out again. “Jack, is everything al-”

But John’s gone, trudging back out to the hallway, toward his own room, where Alex is damned if he’s going to actually _sleep,_ and it makes him nervous. His heart beats a little irregular, because it’s occurring to him that John maybe isn’t being a grouch, that he’s actually _pissed,_ and at _Alex,_ and he _hates_ that. They bicker, _frequently,_ but legitimate antagonism is rare. It’s been years since they’ve even gone a day without speaking and John is one of the very few certainties Alex trusts implicitly enough to _stay a certainty_ to be able to ground himself on. It’s been that way for as long as he cares to remember, since he’d looked up and realized his freshman roommate had somehow become a reliable fixture in his life while Alex wasn’t looking, while he’d just been trying to keep his head down and get the fuck through it and come out with as much going for him as he possibly could. He’s only just managed to balance himself after the metaphorical _work_ pillar of his stability fell away from under him, and his stomach twists sharply, uncomfortable at the prospect of having another _constant_ wobbly so soon after.

There’s a hole in his sock, he notices; his right toe almost poking through the worn threads and he can’t stop wiggling it a little anxiously while he wonders if he should have asked about Eliza, asked whether John’s spent the evening with her, because maybe that would have been the polite thing to do, except John had obviously been awkward as fuck around her the last time they’d all been out and if they’ve talked, Alex hasn’t heard about it, so he’d surely just be making it worse if he pried. Especially if they _have_ talked and decided _not to._ Alex wouldn’t want to be cross-examined in that situation, or any situation, really-

But maybe John would. He’s weird like that, maybe-

Before he can decide whether he wants to hop up and trail after John, though, to check if he actually is sleeping, or at least do something to ease the tapping tension suddenly back in his fingers and the unsettled feeling in his gut, the door swings open again and Alex catches his own discomfort, his own feeling of _not right_ mirrored on John’s face before he sighs and throws himself down onto the couch too. Alex catches the cereal box flung his way at the very last minute and the manic leprechaun looks like it's almost laughing at him as he fumbles with it.

“Okay, _fine,_ ” John mutters. “Don’t skimp on the mallow, though. And can we avoid anything with puppets, please, I’m on a comedown and that shit is terrifying.”

“Sure,” Alex agrees, uncoiling in relief, because puppets are fucking disturbing anyway, even _without_ uppers, but he’s distracted from elaborating further on the sheer and utter creepiness of _The Muppets_ or _Sesame Street_ because when he tosses a miniature marshmallow John’s way it bounces right off of his forehead and he’s too busy snorting through a laugh instead.

John falls asleep three hours later, cold toes rammed under Alex’s thigh to warm them and drooling into the back of the couch while Alex eases his earbuds back in to finish his podcast, and although John’s a whole lot less frowny, now, Alex resolves to ask about Eliza the next time he has the opportunity, because _something_ is obviously bothering his friend, and he’s going to find out what it is. 

* * *

_[Jeffershit] -_ I’m perplexed as to how you seem to have enough manners to turn off my light  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ But not enough to tell me you were leaving  
 _[A.Ham] -_ What the fuck  
 _[A.Ham] -_ You were sleeping  
 _[A.Ham] -_ I’d argue it’s more rude to wake you up just to state the fucking obvious  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Of course you’d argue  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Next time I’ll just let your electric bill run up into the hundreds  
 _[A.Ham] -_ See if I give a shit when you have to shop at Target with the rest of us peons  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Next time?  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Thinking about it already, are you.  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Oh fuck off  
-  
-  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ That wasn’t a no, Alexander.

* * *

“-ow, what the fuck, that was _close-_ ”

“No, t’really w’sn’t,” Hercules mumbles around a mouthful of pins. “St’y _still,_ pl’se-”

“I _would_ if you weren’t treating my fucking ballsack like your own personal pin cushion,” Alex grouses, tries to turn to see him but is roughly shoved back facing the other way while Herc gets far too near his sensitive bits with those damn spikes. “You made me lose my place. Now I have to start over. _Right;_ Angelica’s cousin Richard, tall, greying far too early, used to be a mayor until he-”

“ _Alex,_ ” Hercules sighs, carefully removing his pins from between his teeth and sitting back on his heels to survey his work. “You don’t have to memorize them _all,_ you know. Angelica wants you involved because she loves you. She’s not expecting you to know every single member of her family on sight-”

“I’m not going to be shit at it, Herc,” Alex mutters, avoiding his eyes, because he hates being shit at anything, at least anything important, because he’s been given a job and so he’s going to do it _perfectly_ and because if there’s one thing he learned being bounced from foster home to foster home it’s that he’s not an easy person to love. Or at least keep loving. That, he supposes, and how to make himself useful; how to use what he’s good at to his advantage, and so if he can keep Angelica from regretting her choice, repay her kindness and earn his keep by being able to introduce himself to her great-aunt Gladys and charm her by asking about her three cats specifically by name as he escorts the old woman to her seat, then that’s what he’s going to damn well _do_. “I’m just _not._ ”

“You’re not going to be shit, anyway,” Hercules smiles, obviously bemused, but lets it go. “Go on, get down and shake it so I can see how you move.”

Alex snorts _flirt_ but does, hops down off of the box Herc has him stood on and pulls his best moves until Herc barks out a laugh and a _do not even think about slut dropping in that suit, Alexander._

“Yes, because I _want_ pins shoved up my ass,” Alex rolls his eyes and throws out another hip thrust instead just to make Hercules’s mouth twitch again.

“We don’t kink shame in this apartment,” he admonishes absently as he spins Alex in a pirouette a few times, looking appraising. “Very nice, if I do say so myself.”

“I look hot, right?” Alex asks, escaping his grip and edging towards Laf’s full-length mirror in the corner of their room.

“As if you think I would make you something in which you _didn’t_ look hot,” Hercules huffs, and Alex cocks his head at his reflection, slides his hands up the waistcoat absently to fiddle with the buttons.

“Yeah, but would you wanna fuck me in it, though?”

“As an outfit for our _friend’s engagement party,_ I don’t think the point is for someone to want to fuck you,” Herc says dryly, and Alex scoffs.

“Your entire business is predicated on the fact that the basic point of _most_ outfits is for _someone_ to want to fuck you,” he retorts, and promptly leaves the room to find Laf, curled up on the couch with his laptop and a wedding magazine, because Angelica is a fucking genius and also saving thousands on a planner. He raises a suggestive eyebrow. “ _Vous voilà, ma chère. Dis-moi, tu veux me baiser habillé comme ça?_ ”

“ _-it’s like you think I haven’t had a French boyfriend for eight years,_ ” Hercules calls through from the other room. “ _I can understand you just fine, you know-_ ”

“I don’t give a shit whether you can or not,” Alex yells back. “-propositions just sound _sexier_ in French.”

Laf chuckles and appraises him with sparkling eyes and a smirk, gives him a long enough look over, but instead of answering he counters Alex’s question with one of his own. “I do not understand who you think you need to impress at an engagement party full of Schuylers. I have heard you reciting your research. Hardly an eligible bachelor among them. Who on earth are you planning to seduce?”

He-

_Nobody_. Obviously.

He’s not _seducing_ anybody, he reminds himself, forcefully, because the thought is ridiculous.

He’d be blind and naïve if he said he wasn’t, in the back of his mind, mostly expecting to end next Saturday evening stuffed full and panting, spread wide and split open on Jefferson’s cock after Angelica's party, or that he’s not a _tad_ impatient to get through the next two weeks and this stupid fucking conference to get to that moment already, but _seduction_ is a far off thought. He doesn’t need to _seduce_ Jefferson, that’s not what this _is,_ this mutual meeting of needs, it isn’t anything tangible and solid; it’s a _look,_ an impression, nothing that Alex wants to connect to such an intentional and deliberate and premeditated word like _seduction._

Besides, he doesn’t give a shit what Jefferson thinks of how he dresses; the guy makes his distaste of that aspect of Alex’s person clear every damn day anyway.

It’s a curious thought though, now it’s risen, unbidden; whether his allure to Jefferson is strictly, purely _functional,_ or whether it can be heightened, whether that scoffing, upturned nose like he’s smelled something bad is just a reaction to _Alex_ on the whole, or whether Alex can erase it just by dressing up a little fancy, whether a few tucks and stitches in the right places in his clothes will make those far-too-large hands more insistent, more fervent when they strip him out of them, whether if he looks good enough, he’ll be able to feel dark eyes trying to do that job all by themselves from the other side of the room for hours beforehand.

But that’s a brand new side-consideration, and not at all his primary motivation here. He willfully refrains from asking if he can take his new suit to the conference this week to get an answer just that little bit earlier. It's not that important.

“Have you _seen_ bellhops in those fancy-ass hotels these days?” Alex shrugs, nonchalant, waggles his eyebrows for good measure. “I bet they have to be _ripped_ to carry all that unnecessary shit rich people drag with them everywhere. Wouldn’t mind getting an up-close answer to that theory.”

“ _Réflexion très rapide,_ Alex.” Laf grins at him and shakes his head, and _still_ doesn't fucking answer. Alex despairs. 

“So?” he prompts, probably a little dramatically. “Am I really _that_ fucking pathetic-”

“ _Yes,_ ” John bellows from the direction of the hallway. “-you _are._ For the love of god, can one of you _please_ just give him his fucking validation and tell him you’d dick him already. I’m trying to _concentrate_ -”

“ _Oh fuck you-_ ”

“ _At least somebody wants to,_ ” John screeches, more than a touch of amusement in the words, and Alex only manages to take three steps to go down there and stick him in the side with one of the fancy pearl-tipped pins holding his jacket in place before an arm appears out of fucking nowhere and wraps around his middle and drags him back with a deep sigh before he can get any further.

“Obviously you look great,” Hercules says patiently. “Stop being a brat. You know damn well we’d never kick you out of bed. Now stand still.”

Alex grumbles but acquieses while Herc makes some adjustments. Laf winks at him. “ _Notre offre est toujours ouverte, petit lion,_ you are always more than welcome if you wish. _Un autre ménage à trois peut-être?_ ”

“No thank you,” Alex says primly, his stinging ego slightly mollified, even as Hercules gripes _not while he’s wearing the suit, G, Angelica would kill me if we stain it._ He’d managed to not go running to the two of them to clear his mind even when faced with two weeks of insanity-inducing boredom and frustration, he’s not about to cross his own set of boundaries now. He just wants to know the option is there. Just likes to know that he’s wanted. Whether that makes him a tease or not, he doesn't know, nor really give a shit. They won't hold it against him, and they don't; Hercules flicks the back of his ear with a huff before going back to re-pinning his collar. Laf snorts, eyes bright and dancing.

“ _Tu es belle chérie._ I am confident whichever _poor unsuspecting hotel staff member_ you decide bestow your affections on for the evening will appreciate your dedication to their enjoyment.”

“Oh shut up,” Alex mutters, because he’s pretty sure he’s being laughed at, he’s just not sure how, or why.

* * *

Alex is pissed. 

It's the third time this week he's had to shoot down a price pitch from yet another condescending, corporate douchebag, and while telling people to go fuck themselves with as much feigned politeness as he can muster normally actually gets him going a little, this _particular_ douchebag has been coming back around so often Alex feels like he's playing squash with himself; the ball just keeps coming back for his face no matter how hard he hits it away. 

The guy owns a research lab, and while there’s some excitement in the metaphorical air about them expanding Seabury’s facility, not only is the man a Grade A asshole that Alex would rather have fuck all to do with, he’s also crunched the numbers and he’s well aware that they’ll be _far_ better off collaborating with the dude’s direct competitor rather than buying his lab and competing outright. _That's_ what Alex wants to do. 

He’s not even the only one. Even Madison doesn’t seem to be on board with buying the guy out, and that's the entire point of his fucking _job._

But the dude's like a fucking weed; he's a pal of Monroe's and so _magically_ Adams is on board too, because Adams bends right over the nearest available surface for any single one of their shareholders in an effort to secure himself all the support he'll need to see his way to CEO one day, and so Alex has just had to endure yet _another_ painful conversation about _how much mister Fredricks is looking forward to meeting us properly at the conference and hearing what we have to offer,_ with so much implication of _we better make it a damn good offer_ that Alex wants to scream. And so he promptly does; at Jefferson - because who the fuck _else_ is he going to be able to scream at so completely as to make himself feel better - actually rants so loud the other man winces, because he finds it utterly infuriating to suggest they should even offer the douchebag _anything_.

That's what makes it worse, he fumes; that the guy is so self-important that he pitches the sale of his company in a way that entirely suggests _he's_ doing _them_ the favor by even _considering_ selling, and if Alex is told in less-than-explicit terms to _beg_ the arrogant fuck for his run-down facility one more time, he's going to ruin someone. 

He needs to figure a way to shoot this down properly before it gets much further, because his boss isn't pleased about it. 

Washington doesn't want Fredericks' business anymore than Alex does; Alex knows this, because Washington had trusted him well enough when he'd said _this isn't going to be financially efficient, we should invest in the competitor instead,_ because he'd said the initial prospect was _interesting,_ and if _interesting_ isn't one of their buzzwords for _hell no_ Alex doesn't know what is, and also because he knows that Washington really isn't looking for another nepotistic tie to their shareholders. He doesn't like that yoke at the best of times.

He also can't do much about Fredericks because of it, though. Washington might own two-fifths of their shares, but it still means he's shit out of luck if the others ever band together and decide to take a real interest in taking control away from him and so pissing off Monroe by flat-out telling his friend _no_ is really not worth that risk. Not when Alex can piss everyone off and do it for him, anyway.

And so Alex needs to figure out how the fuck to do that for good. And fast.

Not that he explains most of his motivation to Jefferson, of course. His complaint mostly consists of ranting that the guy is a smarmy, self-important _prick._

“Stop looking at me like that,” Alex snaps, when this - _emphatically_ _repeated_ \- statement only garners a raised eyebrow. Granted, it's maybe a little odd to be yelling those words in Jefferson's office and _not_ referring to the man himself, but it's no reason for him to be regarding Alex like a particularly tricky Sudoku as he paces and vents. “I’m not kidding, you know. He's a _p_ _rick._ I swear to god if he bothers me one more time I'm reporting it as a fucking hate crime-”

Jefferson coughs into his drink. “Okay, congratulations _,_ you’ve finally lost me. How the _hell_ is that a hate cri-”

“Because I _fucking hate him,_ ” Alex growls, and Jefferson rubs a hand over his face with a strangled noise. It doesn’t alleviate a single bit of Alex’s annoyance that he actually looks like he might be holding back laughter, the asshole. Alex’s fists ball at his sides involuntarily at his twitching lips and the amusement in his eyes and he thinks about maybe throwing a punch, or a stapler, but that’s not really what he wants. He _wants_ to think through the mess of mind-numbing frustration and figure out what the fuck to _do_ about this, he wants to stop his mind whirring so that he can get on with _fixing_ the problem. His thoughts are, worryingly, far too foggy of late.

He already knows what’s going to happen, how he’s going to ease that buzz, but he still can’t deny the urge to throw up intentional roadblocks; big, belligerent, neon poster boards that signpost exactly how he’s pushing for that snap of control to settle around him. “Fuck you. Would you just fucking _stop-_ ”

“Oh _you_ stop. Stop pacing and just come here already,” Jefferson says, exasperated and pointed as he takes the bait, and although Alex flicks the lock on the door, he waits until Jefferson makes an unimpressed noise at having to repeat himself, firm and deliberate and brooking no argument this time. “ _Come here._ ”

He does, of course; eventually drops to his knees between Jefferson’s with thankfully only a small sigh of relief. It’s not always like this; sometimes when they’re both in a good mood it’s almost _playful,_ he’s _eager_ to do this and comfortable enough to show it, but he can’t quite tap into that on days like today when his mind won’t stop and feels like it needs metaphorically wrangling into submission. It translates out until he’s telegraphing that need with every word and gesture and at least Jefferson seems to have the ability to pick up on those signals like a fucking pro.

“-really need to calm down, doll,” Jefferson hums under his breath, albeit slightly stilted as he maneuvers Alex’s face where he wants it and yanks down his zipper. Alex has to hold himself in place to keep from leaning in at the sound of it, and at the tight, hasty way he’s moving. “-all this stress can’t be good for your blood pressure, you know.”

Alex _would_ bite back at that, because despite all the jibes about his caffeine intake Alex is as healthy as a fucking horse, thank you very much, but the demanding, slick press of half-hard cock up against his lips is a little distracting and counterproductive to forming actual words, and so he makes do with glaring mulishly and literally biting back; pressing the very, very faintest pass of his teeth along the underside of Jefferson’s dick as he works it fully hard and opens for it.

He gets a grunt and a sharp, painful tug where he’s being gripped by the ponytail in reprimand but can’t bring himself to regret it, because whether by accident or design it’s not hard enough to really hurt, just has heat flaring in his pants and his eyes closing around a garbled moan as his mouth is forced wide with every push as Jefferson sets a steady, solid pace. There’s a brush of soft fingers against his forehead as the loose hair that’s fallen forward is pushed back and away from his face for a better view, and from behind his closed eyes he imagines Jefferson’s own, hot and intent as he watches. He likes to watch; sometimes Alex thinks he’d be forgiven for thinking Jefferson likes to see himself moving in Alex’s mouth just as much as he likes the feel of it, and he’s not surprised when one of the hands leaves his hair, cups his chin, his cheek, or when a sure thumb pressed up against the mess of spit gathering in the corner of his mouth and down his chin, or rubs along his lower lip to feel along the point of entry, or when his voice comes low and gravelly.

“There. _There,_ now. Good. That does the job, huh?” Alex doesn’t bother stamping down on the needy little noise of agreement, too busy swallowing around the head of him, deep down at the back of his throat, lets it spill out, high and whiny, _yes, yes, it does._ “ _Christ._ Yeah, that’s better isn't it-”

And it is. It _is_ better; the tightness in his chest and in his fists slowly easing with no room in his head for contemplating the stress or annoyance of ten minutes ago when all of his concentration is now focused on not gagging around the insistent press into him, again and again and _again_ as Jefferson fucks his face, or on the sounds of his bitten-off groans every so often when Alex doesn’t quite manage it easily, when he splutters and chokes a little, or on the feeling of wetness gathering around his closed eyes, or on the thick, quiet praise as Jefferson mutters _needed it, didn’t you_ and _take it so good, don't you, look so pretty for me._ It’s easy to sink into it, instinctive, now, to lose himself in it, to float on the bliss of having nothing else to concern himself with right this very moment other than this; opening his mouth and making this _good._

Alex can begrudgingly admit it’s something Jefferson is damn good at; riding that admittedly thin line of _using_ him in a way that doesn’t make him _feel_ used, instead somehow makes him feel like he’s good for something, good _at_ something without trying, without exhaustive effort, just by being there, by being _himself_ , open and willing and _wanting,_ without straying into making him feel like taking a dick is the sum total of his worth. He’s had plenty of people that come at this facet of his preferences like a blunt hammer; they hear he wants to be roughed up and suddenly he’s a _desperate little slut,_ or a _cock hungry whore_ or he’s _only good for spreading his legs or being on his knees_ until sometimes he doesn’t even bother because he doesn't need to hear that shit in bed. There are more than a few people in his industry, hell, in this very fucking building even, who’ve alluded the same; said less-than-subtly to his damn face what they think he’s _good for,_ the _only_ reason they assume he’s gotten to where he is, what his only _useful_ qualities are, and so maybe he’s a little overly tense and sensitive around that trigger, wary of someone hitting it and sending him into a spiral of unpleasantness and self-doubt, or having Jefferson scoff or laugh. It's not a feeling he's particularly used to, this being leery and cautious and self-concious of expressing his wants or needs, but he supposes it's an unpleasant, unexpected and utterly confusing side-effect of the novelty of sleeping with someone he actually has to _see_ again, to interact with on a relatively meaningful level on a regular basis. Confidence is a damn sight easier if you're practically anonymous and don't have to worry about facing off across a conference room after utterly humiliating yourself by asking someone to choke you out.

But it's worth it, because Jefferson, honest-to-god _Jefferson,_ who Alex hasn't been able to have a conversation without cussing at since he met the man two years ago; _Jefferson_ somehow manages to take what he wants and cushions it, make him feel _good_ about it with just the occasional gentle touch or a well-timed soft word. It's got to be that overly moneyed, aristocratic, bullshit upbringing, _surely,_ or that hang-up he has about mistreating lower members of staff bleeding through and loosely applying to when Alex is _literally_ below him, but it’s been a while since he’s fucked someone that has understood his base needs so well, if ever, and so even though he knows that’s what it is when Jefferson offsets choking him with his cock with the odd _doll_ or _baby_ or calls him _pretty_ or punctuates giving Alex a pounding with a soft press of lips to the back of his sweaty neck, it’s still nice, still reassuring that he can enjoy being had like this without worrying about recrimination or shame.

And Christ, _does_ he enjoy it; the pressure of the tight grip on his hair and the relentlessness of his mouth being held open and the taste of him merge together and sink down to burn low in his gut and between his legs until he’s damp with it, until his balls are almost aching, until he’s unknowingly making enough noise that Jefferson shushes him, grits out _everyone’s gonna hear you moaning for me if you don’t stop,_ hoarse and pained like it maybe hurts him a little to say it, until Alex's hips shift and twitch over and over-

It’s not until Jefferson pauses, breathing heavy and ragged, Alex yanked right down on his cock, nose-to-pelvis and overwhelmingly full, shaking and shuddering and covered in spit that he realizes he’s got the heel of his own hand pressing insistently against himself, rutting up into it, mindless and need-driven until Jefferson shakes him by the head and makes a tutting noise that has Alex choking at the movement and whining out a noise around him in protest or in apology, he’s not quite sure, himself.

“Hands up,” Jefferson rasps, and Alex does, immediately, fists Jefferson’s pants over his knees even as he whimpers at the loss of contact with his dick. It’s almost better, this being made to wait, because he knows by now that Jefferson’s good for it, even if it feels like torture. Especially if it feels like torture. “-in fact, sleeves up-”

He’s confused, but does as he’s told, yanks his shirt sleeves up his forearms through touch alone, eyes blurry and wet as Jefferson tugs him away to hack and cough around a quick breath before pulling him back down again, and he’s too busy molding his lips back around Jefferson’s cock to care _why_ until a low, satisfied, almost growling noise rumbles from the man. Careful fingers trace over one of his wrists that he knows, from his own inspection in the shower that morning, are still ringed with brown and fading purple, bruised up but not particularly sore, just unmistakable evidence of his restraint on Friday night and it’s got to be a trigger for Jefferson because his movements go suddenly choppy and harsh and sporadic and he somehow feels like he gets even _harder_ as he passes along Alex’s lax tongue repeatedly.

_“Fuck- good_ _boy._ That's it, where do you want it?” Jefferson asks, low and wrecked, and Alex can’t help his almost-violent shudder at those words with that hint of a growl and the sobbing noise he makes surely answers the question. Well, that and the way Alex tries to pull back a little, tugging against the hand in his hair, because a second later he pulls Alex right off him and pants out; “Yeah, okay baby. Okay, I got you-”

Alex is still open-mouthed and panting himself when wet heat hits his lips, halting his ragged attempts at breathing as he inhales sharply and holds it in an effort to drag the moment out for as long as possible as Jefferson paints his face and the sucker-punch of euphoria and arousal at the feel of it, and at the sound of Jefferson groaning under his breath when Alex gives in to the urge to stick out his tongue out for it is almost, _almost_ as good as how hard he comes a few minutes later with one of Jefferson’s hands wrapped around his dick and the other swiped through the mess on his face and shoved three fingers knuckle-deep down his throat.

He can’t actually stand up for a minute, afterward, head reeling, slides backward off of Jefferson’s lap where he’d been perched to _thump_ onto his ass on the floor, lets Jefferson carefully wipe his face and clean him up because he’ll make sure there’s nothing left to give them away and then leans back on his hands, tips his head back to blink slowly at the ceiling until his vision stops spinning and twisting. He can feel Jefferson’s eyes on him as he does, and it doesn’t feel _hot_ anymore; he feels that slick sense of being _assessed_ sliding down his spine. Jefferson’s got that overly Southern gent thing about making sure Alex is _alright,_ about consent and _safety_ and excessive as Alex thinks it is, it’s better than the opposite, he supposes. It’s ironic, really, that he thinks that Jefferson’s probably the first person in a long while that he’d let tie his hands behind his back while they mercilessly fuck his face, _a personal_ _favorite,_ and yet probably the only person he’s fucked that would probably be too overly concerned with Alex not being able to tap out or safeword to actually _do_ it.

He’s already on the floor and mostly out of reach, and he doesn’t have it in him to crawl back into Jefferson’s space so that the guy can stroke his hair, even if he does now kind of like how it prolongs that slow, easy feeling, but he does kick his foot out until it connects with a shiny, far-too-expensive shoe, until there's toe-to-toe contact, because he _is_ alright. Actually, Jefferson’s gone _hard_ today; Alex’s jaw aches and his lips feel a little bruised and his scalp _stings._ Alex is fucking _great._

In his periphery, he can see Jefferson flexing his hand. “I’m gonna buy you a damn mouth guard if you bite me one more time,” he grumbles idly, like he hadn’t groaned _yeah come on, just like that_ into Alex’s ear as he’d shaken and sobbed through his orgasm with his teeth buried in the guy’s fingers. Alex grins, flashes his teeth on purpose.

“Sorry,” he says anyway, without looking at him properly, airy and carefree, and not sounding sorry at all, because he isn’t. Jefferson snorts and kicks at his foot as Alex stretches and fixes his hair.

“Why don’t you just put him off us?” he says suddenly, offhand, and Alex frowns up at him, hands atop his own head, still a little dazed. 

“Why don’t I _what_ now?”

“Hamilton, you are literally the single most infuriating person on the planet. Use it. Play it up. Whatever. If we buy him out he's going to have to stay on and manage his business under us anyway. Enough exposure to you being _you_ is surely going to put him right off, no matter what the hell we offer him,” Jefferson says; slowly, like he’s talking to a child, like the answer had been obvious the entire time.

He's not even _looking,_ distracted by something in his top drawer and Alex feels unsettlingly un-put-together in contrast. Un-put-together and _stupid,_ because that's not even a word and there's something about the timing of it that rubs him all wrong too; fucked out and still sprawled across Jefferson's office floor while the guy just hands him an answer to his problem, magnanimous like Alex has _earned_ it or worse, like he _wants_ something for it while Alex's guard is down and either way he suddenly feels… not so great anymore, actually. Not even because his idea is _you're an asshole, be one,_ because that's infuriatingly pretty good. It's that sick, wary sense of being _unbalanced_ that he doesn't like. 

“Why would you say that?” he scowls suspiciously, wobbling to his feet. Jefferson’s brows knit together. “What the fuck are you after?”

“Nothing?” he says, confused, and glances up as Alex roughly pulls his sleeves back into place. “I was just trying to help-”

Alex narrows his eyes.

“Well _don't._ I didn’t ask for your help,” he says sharply, annoyance flaring and aimed squarely inward for being so fucking _slow_ as to to not have come up with that himself, because _obviously_ , because that possibility should have already occurred to him, _would_ surely have occurred to him by now if he hadn’t been feeling so fucking _scatterbrained_ recently. “I didn’t _want_ your help. Jesus-”

He doesn’t _need_ Jefferson’s help, he would have gotten there in the end and figured this shit out perfectly fine on his own. He doesn’t need open-ended _help_ without context, doesn’t need to be spending his time worrying about those _favors_ coming back to kick him in the balls and suddenly, _miraculously_ needing _repaying_ at the worst possible time, because that's just how these things work. It’s always _our home is your home, honey, we’re here to take care of you, anything you need_ until he’s stupid enough to buy it and relax and then it’s suddenly _we feed and clothe you off our own backs kid, about time you earned your keep you ungrateful little bastard-_

Jefferson throws up his hands in mild exasperation. “Then what the hell _did_ you want-”

“I don’t fucking _know_ ,” Alex snaps, because he doesn't, really, and he can't very well shout _I_ _just wanted to suck your fucking dick, alright._ He tangles his hand in his hair and bites his lip, tension clogging up his shoulders all over again even though his problem is ostensibly _solved,_ because now he feels like he’s got another one.

“Hang on, what the fuck just-” Jefferson says, looking lost and frustrated, sitting forward in his chair suddenly as Alex stomps across his office to the door. “Hey, I don’t understand why you’re pissed at me-”

“I’m _not,_ ” Alex snarls, and slams the door so hard Jefferson's assistant yelps and knocks his drink clear across his desk.

* * *

From: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
To: A.Porter@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: PO#202000432

Allen,

I’d like to notify you that the graphic designer detailed on the above purchase order request is not one of our approved suppliers. I don’t know what the standard operating procedure was at McDonald's or wherever you breezed in from not a month ago, but each external entity employed by Washington Industries undergoes a stringent vetting process before their services are utilized, however briefly.

The business you are attempting to enlist meets these set criteria about as well as an incontinent golden retriever does, and as such this purchase order has been denied. Please see the relevant project coordinator for assistance in performing your job correctly and within the bounds of your employment contract before we decide to invest in an individual who will.

Have a great afternoon,  
A.Hamilton  
Director of Finance 

* * *

From: A.Schuyler@washindustries.com  
To: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
Subject: STOP

Alexander dearest,

Stop making my baby marketing assistants cry. You and I both know very well that we’ve used questionable external services before in certain circumstances; it’s no reason to terrify them into thinking you’re going to fire them. Which, I might remind you, you cannot do.

This isn’t an area in which you are typically fastidious. What’s your angle?

( _Incontinent golden retriever??_ )  
Angelica 

* * *

From: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
To: A.Schuyler@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: STOP

Angelica my darling, your new baby marketing assistant is an unscrupulous bastard that deliberately selected an alternative designer to the one already proposed, approved and locked in for this project, for no discernible reason other than what I can only assume was an attempt to undermine the original choice for the benefit of personal glory. 

And I thought your department were all team players. Tut tut.

As far as I'm aware we'd already offered a contract to the approved designer; it's in my interest to ensure we don't pay two businesses for the same damn work, just because some new kid thinks his buddy can do a better job than a vetted contractor. 

Of course I can’t fire him, dear, I would never step on your toes.

But I can make him wish I had.

All the best, as always  
A.Ham

* * *

From: A.Schuyler@washindustries.com  
To: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: STOP

Alright, I'll concede your point. I’ll have a word with the hotshot if you leave him alone afterward.

It's funny really, I had a look at the breakdown for this project. And the coordinator. 

Does Jefferson happen to know how invested you apparently are in keeping his plans on track?

Lets have lunch,   
A.

* * *

From: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
To: A.Schuyler@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: STOP

You have a deal, I'll leave your sneaky little fuck be. 

Awfully busy today, apologies  
A.Ham

* * *

_[Jeffershit] -_ Hamilton  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Why does Angelica seem to think I set you on her new exec?  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Oh for fuck's sake  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Look the guy put in a PO for a different graphic designer to the one you picked out for the Mercer project  
 _[A.Ham] -_ I merely pointed out his error  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Were you going to tell me about this at some point?  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Probably not  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Apparently you made him cry  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Yes yes, well, it's not my fault he's a pussy  
 _[A.Ham] -_ If he didn't want to be berated then he shouldn't undermine other people's hard work  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Are you suggesting I work hard?  
 _[A.Ham] -_ I'm suggesting you shut the fuck up  
 _-  
-  
_ _[Jeffershit] -_ Thank you  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ (This is the widely socially acceptable way in which to respond when somebody goes out of their way to assist or advise you in some manner.)  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ Just for your future reference  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Fuck off

* * *

_[A.Ham] -_ Et tu, Brute?   
_[Ang] -_ Alas  
 _[Ang] -_ Next time you'll have lunch with me, won't you  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Our deal is off, I'm crucifying your newbie  
 _[Ang] -_ Yes, do go ahead   
_[Ang] -_ I had to remind him three times where my eyes were while I tried to deal with the situation  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Okay, but in his defense...  
 _[Ang] -_ Shut up Alex  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Right-o  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Shutting up

* * *

Three hours later Jefferson’s blushing boy scout of an assistant is hovering in the middle of Alex’s office bearing a takeout cup and a nervous expression that he aims decidedly away from Alex's face. Alex eyes him, and the cup he deposits carefully onto the desk when Alex makes no move to actually take it from him.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Coffee, mister Hamilton,” the kid mumbles, and as Alex regards him, flat and unimpressed, an audible snort echoes from just beyond his open office door.

“He means _why the fuck have you brought it to him,_ Benjamin darling,” Lucas’s disembodied voice whisper-prompts loudly enough that Alex hears him, though he’s not sure he was supposed to. Ben flushes.

“Oh, _oh_. Sorry. Mister Jefferson asked me to get it for you, sir,” he says, to some unknown point above Alex’s head, still furiously pink.

“He asked you to-” Alex repeats blankly, and blinks, finally picking up the cup when the young man nods. It’s warm and nice up against his suddenly-cold fingers and when he sips at it curiously he gets distracted by the perfect cloying, sickly-sweet of syrup; caramel overriding the strength of the overwhelming bitterness on his tongue. It’s his order, just the way he likes it and when he tugs off the receipt still stuck to the side of it, it's the only thing listed.

This isn't Alex being too busy laughing at the barista calling Jefferson _ass-stick guy_ to be able to say, _no, just mine please_ , This is Jefferson sending his assistant out specifically _for_ this, and Alex is utterly thrown. 

Angelica's ogler might actually have known better than Jefferson in terms of graphic design, who the fuck is Alex to say, but his best guess was that he'd been trying to show _initiative,_ and Jefferson is so much of a fucking _control freak_ with his projects that there was no way he was going to take kindly to someone trying to show any _initiative_ in the opposite direction to the one he’d already requested, no matter the outcome. So Alex had nudged things a little bit, and as far as he's concerned, he’s already leveled the playing field of _favors,_ is feeling a hell of a lot more even-keeled now that he doesn't feel like he _owes_ anything, and so what the _fuck_ is Jefferson trying to do here? Unbalance it again in an effort to get more out of him?

Does _quid pro quo_ include _coffee?_ Surely not. 

He tries to muster a glare at Ben who shifts awkwardly under scrutiny and Alex promptly gives up on trying to make him make _any_ kind of sense, because there’s no way the guy’s going to be able to explain his boss's motivations _._

“And now you have, so good for you, I suppose. Why the fuck are you still here?” he says instead, and a second later Ben isn’t; in fact he scrambles like a bomb has gone off and Alex would feel bad about terrorizing the poor kid but he reasons Jefferson’s to blame for it in the first place. Maybe Ben shouldn't have an unfathomable asshole for a boss. Once he’s scurried away, Alex follows him to peer around his office door and level narrow eyes at his own assistant. “Do you need me to take some of that extra work away mister Edison? You seem to be _slipping._ ”

“No sir,” Lucas says quickly, because he’s been doing some side shit for Alex lately and they’re both aware it’s damn good experience that by all rights, he shouldn’t be getting, except he’s smart and quick and Alex respects and rewards the unwavering dedication he's had to his primary job of _keeping people the fuck out of Alex’s face_ ever since they’d first discussed it back when he’d started. Or at least he _had_ respected it. “ _By appointment only,_ I got it. I just didn’t think that included miste-”

“Didn’t think it included _what_?” Alex interrupts sharply, and is fixed with a guileless grin that he ignores.

“Didn’t think it included _people bringing you coffee,_ sir, my mistake.”

* * *

_[A.Ham] -_ Thank you  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ You're welcome

* * *

“So how _is_ Jefferson, anyway?” John asks, out of nowhere, eyes firmly on the road as they drive, barrels right into the topic like a fucking hit and run, straight on from them speculating how long it will take for Laf to get antsy helping to plan Angelica’s wedding and start wanting one of his own instead, and in his surprise Alex promptly gets a lump of spit, or phlegm, or plain old _air_ stuck in his windpipe and gags on it, which is annoying in and of itself. He shouldn’t be startled by the ninja-inquisition - it’s one of John’s favorite tactics when he wants to catch Alex off guard enough to be honest, coming at him when he’s not expecting it like if Alex doesn’t see a question approaching he might not be able to dodge it entirely before it hits him squarely in the face - but he is surprised, reeling for a few seconds and coughing until he can breathe and try to brush it off. 

“I’m sure he’s doing just swell, Jack,” he says, eyes watering, voice still a little hoarse, staring at his socked feet twitching anxiously up on the dash, traitorously giving him away. “If you’re so invested in the man’s wellbeing maybe you should ask him, he’d probably _love_ the opportunity to talk about himsel-”

“Shut _up,_ you know what I mean,” John huffs, swats at his calf, and Alex can hear the eye roll in his voice, even as he hesitates and flaps a hand in the air that Alex, despite his woeful lack of driving awareness, would still prefer he had on the fucking wheel. “Are you- are you two still-”

“Yeah, sometimes,” Alex shrugs carelessly, shifting in his seat and cutting him off before this can get any _more_ painful, but John doesn’t afford him that same liberty, because he’s an asshole who’s decided that _now,_ when Alex can’t escape in a way that doesn’t involve throwing himself bodily out of a moving vehicle, is the perfect time for a catch up. John angles his head slightly and Alex watches him purse his lips and wrinkle his nose as he thinks. 

“Been going on a while now,” John comments after a long pause, and his tone is light but the current of curiosity under it is decidedly not.

Alex thinks about unbuckling himself and climbing out of the window anyway, busy freeway and business conference be damned. 

He shrugs again.

“I’ve had longer,” he mutters, and he _has._ This thing with Jefferson has only been, what, four months and change? He refrains from pointing out that he’s had such arrangements last as long as _double_ that, mostly because it’s not a fucking competition but also because he doesn’t think mentioning that particular incident will help. John obviously goes there anyway though, eyebrows raised and head cocked in his direction but eyes mercifully ahead, because Alex doesn’t need to see the implication fully to know what he’s thinking; that that one particular eight-monther had left him a little unglued for a while afterward. In his own defense, he’d not quite realized how much he’d come to rely on that regular relief, that it had become consistent enough that it had unbalanced him for it to be abruptly gone, regardless of how casual the situation was or how he’d fully known it _would_ be gone, at some point, because it always was. 

He’d argue that becoming a little reliant was a natural reaction with _any_ stress coping mechanism, though he supposes that drugs, or alcohol - _or being punched in the face, John_ \- don’t suddenly turn out to have a family you never knew about and stop plowing you through the mattress on a semi-regular basis when you say _what the fuck, no thank you, I’d really rather you didn’t leave your wife for me, please leave me alone and stop offering to, like that is something I would ever, ever want, Jesus fucking Christ-_

Regardless, this is entirely different. For one, that had been a long time ago and Alex is far better at taking care of himself without falling into relying on unreliable people. Not that he thinks Jefferson’s harboring a secret wife somewhere, but it’s still pertinent to bear in mind the temporary nature of situations like getting on his knees for a guy that once threatened to throw him out of a tenth-storey window. For two; there have been far more times that he’s sucked Jefferson off because it’s just _good,_ because he _loves it,_ than there are times he’s done it because he needs to in order to keep himself in line. He doesn’t often _need_ Jefferson’s dick to keep his shit together, it’s just a more pleasant tool in his arsenal than some of the alternatives. Definitely much better than yelling at the guy, at least.

For some reason though, he’s not sure explaining that would go down too well with John, either. He bites his lip. “Nothing to report. It’s just a _thing._ It is how it is, y’know.”

“No, I _don’t_ know. You haven’t _told_ me how it is,” John offers, a little sharply, and then, quieter; “You usually tell me.”

Alex’s mouth works around words that don’t come for a second. “What, you _want_ the gritty details on this one? You said _I don’t wanna see that shit-_ "

John almost pouts. “I didn’t think you’d actually take me seriously, Lex. You _never-”_

“I just thought it would be weird as fuck because we _work_ with him, and you fucking hate him, so-”

“ _W_ _orking with him_ hasn’t stopped you from-” John snorts, and then stops. “ _I_ hate him? What, and you don’t?”

“Yeah, _of course,_ ” Alex mutters, with, in all honesty, so little conviction even to his own ear that he’s genuinely surprised John doesn’t snort again, or pull over and punch him, but he doesn’t, and Alex rubs at his eyes until the pressure sends kaleidoscope patterns spinning across his vision to avoid thinking about how weird the words had felt in his mouth. “Jesus- I just meant that I didn’t think you, _personally,_ would want to indulge in listening to sexcapades involving a douchebag you _don’t like,_ alright? What the fuck is with you being so touchy?”

“I just think he’s a _dick,_ okay? And I think he’s-” he snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head, curls bouncing a little. “I just wanna know where your head’s at, and if you- and make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine. I’m _fine,_ ” Alex says, because he is. With his plan finally approved he’s feeling better than he’s felt in a long time, and getting that in place is definitely the reason for that nice, satisfied, content feeling he’s been harboring lately. Guilt curls thick in his gut, because John's _worried_ about him and there's absolutely no need for it. “He _is_ a dick, but it’s fine. Stop fucking worrying. It’s not even anything major. We’ve only fucked like, three times-”

“Wait, really?” John frowns, and glances over. Alex assumes his face looks reasonably honest because a second later John’s shoulders relax a little from where they’d been crawling up toward his ears. “Oh, right.”

“Yeah, exactly. It’s hardly anything,” Alex shrugs, and ignores the way the statement tastes sour and rancid on the way out, because it’s _true._ “It’s mostly just me sucking him off at work, if you _must_ know.”

John hums in acknowledgement, even as he wrinkles his nose reflexively. 

“You _do_ like that,” he concedes. Alex isn’t sure if he means the oral or the _riskiness,_ or both, but regardless he’s right, and so he nods in agreement and John sighs. “Just be careful, alright. I don’t trust him. We’re still talking about the guy that kept his fucking mouth shut the entire time _I_ got crucified at every damn society formal event and only came out _after_ his dad kicked it and everyone felt too fucking sorry for him to give him shit. The guy that spent the last two years ignoring every fucking thing you _ever_ said and now suddenly he’s being weirdly _nice_ just because you’re blowing h-”

“He’s not being _nice,_ " Alex snorts, but refrains from also adding that he’s pretty sure that people change a fair amount from their teenage temperaments and habits, because he recognizes at the last minute that neither he nor John are in any way representative of that fact. “Yesterday he told me he was _genuinely impressed that I don’t cringe in embarrassment whenever I hear myself speaking._ He’s absolutely still an asshole.”

Alex had grinned _well I’m genuinely impressed that someone as vain as you clearly gets dressed in the dark, or is that shirt so bright you thought you could see by the light of it?_ Jefferson had rolled his eyes and told him to get the fuck out of his office until he had something useful to say. Alex had winked on his way out. He’d been in a good mood.

_You're an asshole, but you're not an asshole,_ Alex had said the other week, _hadn't meant to say it, but had meant it all the same._ Jefferson _is_ absolutely still an asshole. Somehow, Alex just doesn’t mind it as much anymore.

He doesn’t make this distinction to John. 

“Speaking of assholes,” he says instead, because they’ve got another forty fucking minutes in this car and if he doesn’t change the subject soon he’s going to choke himself with his own tie or the seatbelt just to escape. They’ll just go round and round in circles if he doesn’t and he’s even less interested in having this conversation _again_ than he was in having it in the fucking first place. He _gets_ it; John doesn’t like Jefferson. Or John doesn’t _trust_ Jefferson, and Alex is eager to move on before he has to examine why that makes him feel weirdly, irritatingly, _defensive._ “-have you stopped _being_ one to our darling Bets, yet?”

John flashes him a _look,_ but miraculously, _blessedly_ allows it; actually he mostly looks relieved that _that_ was where Alex chose to take that segue, and he manages to answer the question without even speaking because his face lights up and he smiles like he can’t help it; small and quiet but so utterly _delighted_ that it makes Alex grin wide. 

“No _shit,_ " he crows, swings his feet down off the dash and twisting eagerly in his seat. “You been fucking holding out on me? You _dick_ -"

John tuts but grins too. “Right, _now_ you’re interested in talking to me.”

“What-the-fuck-ever,” Alex snorts. “We’ve covered my unshakable enthusiasm for sucking dicks that I probably shouldn’t _more than enough_ over the years, there is _literally_ nothing more we could add to that conversation. Unlike, however, whatever you’re about to tell me. Did you kiss again? Did you ask her out? Did you _bang?_ No, _fuck,_ wait, actually, _Christ,_ don’t tell me. For the sake of any confusion I absolutely do _not_ want to hear about sweet, innocent Betsey being utterly _filthy-_ "

John smacks him promptly upside the head. _Hard._ “Shut up. I’m not telling you anything. At all. Ever again.” He grins and immediately belies the statement. “Besides, we’re not telling _anyone,_ just yet.”

“About the filth or about...any of it? Because she’s a classy girl, Jack, I really don’t think you should be sharing intimate details _anywa-_ ” he breaks off with a yelp and then rubs his head when John gives him another clip round the ear. “ _Ow,_ alright, alright, I’m joking. Jesus. Really though. What?”

John sighs. “We’re just taking things slowly. Quietly. There’s less pressure on it when nobody knows.”

“Like, nobody?” Alex frowns. He’s not really sure what to make of it, because surely secrecy suggests _shame_ about something, of course it does, it’s the reason Jefferson had said _nobody finds out about this_ right at the very start of _their_ thing, why Alex had readily agreed; there’s an element of humiliation involved in being discovered fucking someone you’ve previously claimed you’d happily run over with a truck. More than once. But Eliza’s a sweetheart, and a _Schuyler,_ and John might still be a little on the outs with his father but he’s still respectable enough in his own right and he’s a terrible romantic, the perfect, adoring partner. They’re both _beautiful,_ in more than one way, and Alex isn’t sure which one could possibly be ashamed of the other. He’s almost affronted, even though he’s not sure which one of them he’s offended on behalf of yet, but he _is,_ and in the confusion of that thought he realizes how utterly _shit_ it would be to have to pick sides between them if they ever fought badly. 

(There wouldn’t be a choice. He’d pick John. Eliza surely knows this, just as surely as she’ll know that _Alex_ knows about them, even if nobody else does, because Alex doesn’t count as _anyone._ It doesn’t mean it would be any less shit.)

He wonders for a second if he shouldn’t have been so enthusiastic about them getting together, especially if they’re just going to be weird about it, but then he catches the smile still curling up the edges of John’s lips and the dreamy faraway place he’s gone to - which, sidebar, Alex would prefer to avoid a head-on collision, please - and the way he settles back into his seat, more relaxed than he’s been since they set off from home as he says _yeah so keep your big mouth shut at the party alright_ and _last thing we want is to announce something like that at Angelica’s engagement_ and _just giving it a little bit of time, alright_ and so Alex thinks it must just be another one of those weird things he doesn't understand.

“It’s just- it’s a big thing,” John says, a crease forming between his brows when Alex says this. “Or it will be, if we- everyone will make a massive fucking deal of it, and there’s no way to...go back and reverse that if it doesn’t work out. It’s better to just, I dunno, _find out if it does work,_ first. Make sure it’s easy, that it definitely doesn’t turn the world upside down before we commit to it, y’know?”

Alex sort of wants to give John his own line back, because _no, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t really get it_ but he doesn’t really want to admit that, and so he just nods.

It’s maybe not the way he’d look at it, he supposes. But then what the fuck does Alex know about love, anyway.

* * *

Alex _despises_ these things; hotel function rooms full to bursting with toothy, fake smiles and snobby assholes trying to rub greasy elbows with people _just that little bit_ more successful than they are, patting each other on the back and metaphorically circle-jerking over their own self-importance and while he reluctantly understands and accepts the grim necessity of it for furthering their prospects, he doesn’t have to _like_ it. And he _doesn’t._ Mostly he just tries to avoid getting cornered by people wanting to sell them things; the majority of their industry knows very well whose finger is on their checkbook, and if they can’t wheedle any time out of Washington himself then everyone and their mother trying to flog themselves, or their product, or their entire goddamn company to Washington Industries winds up bugging _him._

There’s only a finite number of times he can say no in polite terms before his patience expires.

(Three. It’s three times and after that he’s on to thinly-veiled intonations of _fuck off._ )

He’s on his own, too, because after they’d checked in to their rooms John had promptly dashed the fuck off to speak to some infrastructure security company he’s been banging on about hooking up with for the entirety of the last three weeks like the giant fucking nerd he is, and so Alex has to spend his time walking around mock-purposefully, deliberately scanning the rooms like he’s on a mission; going somewhere specific or looking for someone specific so that nobody fucking talks to him because he _doesn’t want to be here._

He ends up circling back to his conversation with John, later. He can’t help it, and he’s more than a little aggravated because he can’t figure out what specifically about it is lingering with him, but _something_ is. It’s unendingly frustrating having to pick the whole thing apart trying to understand; drinking his way through so many minuscule cups of free coffee he loses count and ambushed into a ridiculously long-winded conversation with Greene that consists of the guy’s desire to acquire several smaller, lesser known law firms in order to create a superhero justice-league guild of attorneys. Or something to that effect. Maybe. _Whatever._ He loses interest partway through, makes a mental note to point Greene in Madison’s direction when he eventually shuts up because the minutiae of acquisitions is infinitely more James’s thing than Alex’s, and then promptly _zones the fuck out,_ because Greene will just keep on going until someone quiets him, and at least Alex can spend the time trying to identify the weird feeling he’s had since the car without being interrupted with something he’ll actually have to expend effort to listen to.

It drives him slowly mad over the afternoon into the evening, the notion that something has caught his subconscious attention without his notice and is making itself known purely through a wobbly, churning sensation in his stomach, and the elusiveness of it bothers him like it _always_ does when he feels like there’s something just out of reach of his mind that he’s not quite grasping.

Right until John fucking Adams comes along and hits him squarely in the face with it and then he’s less _bothered_ and more _furious_ and _distracted._

It’s not exactly his idea of a great time, anyway, being accosted by their already-drunk asshole of a VP right when he’s trying to duck out for a piss and maybe to try and find someone he can bum a cigarette off of just for the excuse to go and hide outside for a little while, but it’s even less so when Adams starts in on how _interested Fredericks is to hear our proposition_ and how _beneficial it would be for us to persuade him to join us_ which is fucking _bullshit_ but Alex willfully refrains from pointing this out, at least. As per his (Jefferson’s) vague plan, he needs to actually _speak_ to Fredericks in order to put the stopper in this and if he mouths off too much at Adams, there’s a chance he’s kept out of the negotiations altogether. They've already cut Madison out due to his lack of interest, after all.

“Yeah, yeah, maybe. I’ll try and catch up with him later,” he says, vaguely, waves Adams off because he’s still not in the mood to deal with it _right the fuck now;_ his hands are starting to twitch with nervous energy and potentially maybe a _little_ bit too much caffeine and his head is all over the place, and he really _does_ need to piss. “- or tomorrow, if I have time.”

Here’s the thing about John Adams; Alex fucking hates him. Especially after his stunt the other month. He’s a spineless, greedy, corruptible asshole and Alex would happily see him hit by a bus. Or a train. Or a minor meteor. He’s not fussy. He’d probably consider lobbying for it to be declared a public holiday in all honesty. At least a company-wide one, at any rate.

Here’s the other thing; the feeling is absolutely mutual, and he’s sharply reminded of that fact when Adams’s smile goes brittle.

“Well now, Hamilton, what else do you have to be getting on with?” he chuckles, and it’s not a kind one. Alex can smell the liquor on his breath and winces, because it's not even that far past _dinner_ yet. “Not like you have a presentation to give like the rest of the big boys at the grown-ups table, eh?”

Alex tries not to flinch at the reminder that the majority of the board members are presenting. That he’s at least the only member of the _senior leadership_ who is decidedly, obviously _not._

He’s not bitter.

Whether it’s infuriating or not, the fact of the matter is that nobody gives a fuck about the intricacies of money as long as they just _keep fucking making it._ Washington will briefly touch on their annual profits when he speaks; an overview at most, and that’s all anybody wants to hear. Especially from Alex.

_They’ll be asleep within the first hour, Hamilton, let alone the following five_ Jefferson had snorted dismissively, their first time here nigh on two years ago, fixed him a smug and patronizing smile. _Besides, whiny children are better seen and not heard, don’t you think?_

He’d been being an insufferable prick, but he’d managed to _win_ that one; though Washington had tactfully phrased it as it _might be a tad dry of a topic for the audience,_ but nevertheless, Adams just _loves_ to remind him of it. The bigwigs of their industry want to hear all about their upcoming new projects, their exciting new acquisitions, their _prospective partnership opportunities._ Nobody ever gives a fuck about the ebbs and flows, the stocks and shares and investments they’re making, just how _much_ they’re making. It’s all bullshit and pageantry without his foundation, without the china plates he spins to keep all of those things a reality and yet nobody ever gives a shit unless he smashes one.

Alright, maybe he’s a _little_ bitter. He's also maybe deliberately holding back on news of a big stock payout just to spite them all. Sue him. He's gotta get his kicks where he can.

“You might want to focus on _working_ mister Fredricks into a deal while you’re sat around twiddling your thumbs,” Adams says, and though it’s said lightly, the inflection and the implication is a heavy as a solid lead brick to the stomach, though not as heavy as when he follows it up with; “I know how _good_ you are at that. Jefferson was only just telling me the other week, all about _how convincing you are,_ when you want to be. He told me how _professionally_ you _persuaded_ him around the other week. Do us all a favor and put that mouth of yours to use getting us a decent price, eh?”

Alex is instantly so crushingly, heart-poundingly _livid_ he can’t even look at the man, finds himself glancing up across the hall for a second, seeking out Jefferson instead, and _of course_ he’s so instantly identifiable; loud suit, loud smile, and for all that he insults Alex’s loud mouth he’s holding his own for that title perfectly well, surrounded by an ever-increasing gaggle of people that just can’t seem to help naturally gravitating toward him, drawn in by the _charm_ and the _voice_ and Alex wants to be pissed off. He wants to be _angry_ at him, righteous and vengeful and he flounders when he reaches for it and it’s not there, not _anywhere_ , and instead he just finds more indignant affront at Adams for _lying._

He’s oddly sure of it, and it’s in that instant that he finally grasps what it is that’s been following him around like a thundercloud since the drive up here; he'd assumed it was about Eliza but it's not. It’s John saying bluntly _I don’t trust him,_ and the niggling, unsettling, subconscious recognition that Alex, actually, in fact, does. Not in the honoring-a-safeword, giving-you-control-of-my-body, don’t-laugh-at-my-kinks kind of way, because he wouldn’t still be fucking the man if he didn’t expect _that_ to be the case, but in a won’t-fuck-me-over, keep-to-your-word, _upstanding-human-being_ kind of way that he’s not sure he can accurately pinpoint the origin of; whether it came after Jefferson had looked so fucking appalled when Alex had asked _were you threatening me_ after _that_ fight, or _because_ of it, he doesn’t know. But it _is_ there, certain and undeniable because when Jefferson obviously feels the weight of eyes on him and glances up, frowning, curiosity or concern or something else in his expression at whatever he sees on Alex’s face when Adams leans in and hisses a whiskey-laden _it’s really a blessing that you’re not presenting, isn't it; nobody will even see the creases on your knees_ Alex thinks with absolute conviction _fuck you,_ _he didn't tell you shit._

It’s a little bit jarring.

He's still angry, of course. He’s fucking furious, because although he’s sure Jefferson didn’t call him a whore, _Adams_ is damn well standing there doing it. It’s been implied before, a fair few times a long fucking while ago, back when there’d been a spate of unfounded, libelous rumors of exactly what Washington was willing to _trade_ in order to gain the resources he needed to fund the takeover and his admittedly twinky, loudmouthed assistant had been at the very top of that list.

Alex isn’t naive enough to have assumed that attitude would stop once he’d stepped away from being Washington’s assistant and gained a respectable enough position on his own, and it hasn’t, but it’s still aggravating beyond belief to have it shoved in his fucking face without warning. He can’t even react how he really wants to, because he can just picture the appalled, defeated, _disappointed_ expression he'll get from his boss if he gives in to the urge to knock half of their VP’s fucking teeth out right now; how the look on Washington’s face would remind him of every time he’d had to keep from breaking noses back then, too.

_(I’m trusting you to do what needs to be done and contain yourself, Alexander. Put aside your offense and rise above it. Play the game. We don’t have the time, energy or freedom to waste on avenging reputations.)_

Even as Adams flashes him a Cheshire-cat smile, molars flashing, Alex’s hands curl into fists at his sides and he has to grit his own teeth before he doubles down on the insult instead of defending himself, thinks _fuck it,_ because Adams is expecting fireworks, probably wants him to humiliate himself in the middle of the convention, and more than anything Alex refuses to give him any satisfaction.

“Oh _yes._ Jefferson, Madison and I had a very productive _group debate._ Oh, fuck, did he not mention Madison? Oh dear.” Alex snorts indelicately at the man’s disconcerted face and slaps him on the shoulder carelessly. “I suppose _they_ at least got to _be persuaded_ _._ Did you even ask _how high_ before you signed it or did you just jump when you were told to, hm?”

Later, once he’s calmed down, locked in a cubicle with his head between his knees trying to breathe evenly and willing his hands to stop shaking, he’ll maybe regret half implying that he screwed the both of them, but it’s not like it’s anything he’s not heard about himself before, and Adams’s startled, surprised expression bleeding into furious outrage as Alex walked off was entirely worth it and the closest thing to satisfying the urge to punch him that Alex could have managed in public.

Christ, one day, when this company isn’t shackled, when it’s _his,_ he’s going to take an unprecedented, perverse amount of pleasure in firing that motherfucker.

Once he’s worked out a way to neatly leapfrog the guy on his way up, that is.

_After_ he’s successfully kept them based in New York.

Fuck, he _really_ needs to fix that, too.

_I hope you know what you’re doing, Alexander,_ Washington had said, serious and unimpressed after it had become clear what he’d agreed to and Alex had heard the unspoken, displeased _I do not intend to move._ Guilt had bloomed, low and sickly in his gut, but he’d very clearly given his word to _change his vote_ and he had done exactly that.

He’d not given his word to see them through to relocating, and they won’t be.

_I’ll figure it out,_ he’d replied _(promised)._ Because he would. Washington doesn’t want to go anywhere, and so Alex will figure it out. At least he’s got a plan, for that one.

_See that you do._

One thing at a time. He needs to kibosh any chance of a deal with Fredericks. He needs to maneuver them into staying in New York. He needs to get himself behind the wheel of this whole thing. Or at least riding shotgun to his boss. And _then_ he can get himself off to the sheer satisfaction of firing the shit out of Adams.

Jesus, Alex needs a fucking drink. And some air.

He finally manages to talk a cigarette out of a reedy, redheaded intellectual property lawyer that clearly agrees that the furthest bathroom from the hustle and bustle is the perfect place to hide, because he almost throws the entire packet at Alex in his enthusiasm to get him to leave so that he can have the hideout to himself. Alex hasn’t smoked in years - unless you count those odd occasions he’s drunk off his ass and wants a boost that isn’t illegal, which he adamantly _doesn’t_ \- but there’s something about situations like this, _that last for several days with no discernible relief from observation,_ that crawl under his skin and pick at him until the need to do something distracting with his hands and his mouth is overwhelming.

And Jefferson still looks busy, so-

He doesn’t actually _get_ to smoke it; a familiar heavy hand clamping down on his shoulder as he makes his way toward the dark and quiet of the hotel terrace and his boss’s _Alexander, just the person I’ve been looking for, someone I want you to meet_ echoes in a way that says _look alive, I need you to do something_ and so he shoves the cigarette back into his pocket and reattaches his game face as he joins the two men.

“-mister Thompson here has some very interesting ideas about government investment opportunities for our tech,” Washington looks over his glass at Alex with a meaningful, raised eyebrow and gestures to the balding, portly man at his side. “I was wondering if you might have a moment to speak with him about the financial implications of such an offer. I can’t seem to see Director Adams anywhere, I think he must be unavailable to discuss investment right now.”

Interesting, not promising. _No thank you._

Speak with him about the financial implications while Adams is busy. _Scare this guy the fuck off before Adams gets his teeth into this._

Alex smiles as he shakes the man’s hand, introduces himself and pretends he doesn’t know damn well Adams is in the very next room where Alex left him half an hour ago. He wouldn’t be surprised if his boss is well aware of that fact, too.

“Absolutely, happy to sir.” _On it._ He gestures toward the open double doors to the terrace, because if he’s not going to smoke out there he may as well utilize the quiet for something beneficial, at least. “Pleasure to meet you, mister Thompson. It’s a little noisy in here for numbers though, isn’t it. Join me outside? If you don’t mind, sir,” he adds with a glance at Washington at the last moment. _I don’t want anyone hearing me talking us down._

Forty-five minutes later, after overwhelming the fuck out of the poor guy thoroughly enough that he retracts his offer so completely it was as if he’d never even considered it in the first place, and sending him off into the chaos with several helpful suggestions of some non-competitive industry alternatives that _might be a better fit for his investments,_ Alex returns to find his boss holding court with a few familiar and unfamiliar faces, not far from where Alex had left him.

Absolutely not in order to ensure that nobody of note ventured too close to the terrace, of course.

“Ah, Hamilton, did you get to speak with mister Thompson?” Mercer puts in as Alex approaches. “I’d heard he was curious.”

“Curious, but ultimately apathetic, unfortunately.” Alex sighs. “Rather a disappointment but I think he’s looking for something else entirely.” _I made sure he was looking for something else entirely._ He turns to Wilkinson, stood nearby, ears pricked and too-nosy and offers him a bored shrug, half uninterested, “Though he did mention, James, that D’Angelo apparently spoke so well of you in your negotiations for that article in his tech magazine that it sounded like there might be wiggle room for another, so that’s something at least.”

He flicks open his phone and scrolls through his texts in an effort not to look too much like he’s dangling bait. It’s already filling up with messages from Madison asking for his input on a potential purchase he’s discussing three rooms over, an invitation to meet with Philip Schuyler when he ducks in to show his face tomorrow evening, and an SOS from John at the bar. He very much doesn’t look at Wilkinson. _Have some casusal flattery and an opportunity to further your own commission and conveniently forget I ever spoke to that man._

“What a shame. Get on that though, Wilkinson,” their boss hums, already turning back to continue his conversation with Mercer. He nods at James, whose keen eyes are already scanning surrounding faces, no doubt looking for D’Angelo to discuss the opportunity further. “If you can secure that before the end of this darn thing, that’d be incredibly beneficial.”

Washington passes Alex a glass; the sharp, smoky lilt of his signature scotch permeating, and Alex takes the _thank you_ willingly, even as he schools his face around the burn in the back of his throat that he normally can’t stand. It goes down a hell of a lot smoother with a side of approval to sweeten it to his taste, at least. “Good work, Alexander.”

_No translation needed,_ Alex thinks, satisfied, stresses taking a back seat for a moment as he basks in the fleeting feeling of a job well done, of fulfilling his purpose before it fades and dims, and he nods and sighs and moves on. 

_And round and round we go._

* * *

John’s SOS turns out to be a false alarm. Mostly he’s disgruntled because he’s spotted Peggy lurking around next to Wolcott and he’s annoyed that he hasn’t _brought his own minion to carry all the shit I’ve picked up from people selling me antivirus software._ Alex refrains from pointing out that John doesn’t actually _have_ an assistant, just an army of bespectacled computer geeks that he bosses around with absolute authority. Alex thinks he’s _actually_ pissed because that makes two out of three Schuyler sisters spending three days at this conference and neither is the one John’s interested in staying the night with. 

He doesn’t say this either, partly because he doesn’t need another clip round the ear, and partly because John turns the room upside down before he can; blinks narrowed eyes across the crowded space and frowns; “Why the fuck is Jefferson’s ex here? Is this a fucking free-for-all, now? _Unbelievable._ ”

Alex pauses, incredibly calmly as he replays the question, before he decides that _yes, that is what he just said._ “I’m sorry, his fucking _what_ now?”

“His _ex._ The guy he’s talking to,” John says slowly, like that answers _any_ of the million of Alex’s questions, and Alex searches out the familiar figure across the room and the admittedly handsome man he’s in conversation with. “Why is he here?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, a little lightheaded. “What’s his name?”

John cocks his head in Alex’s direction and he looks newly wary, like he’s heard the wavering tone of his voice, or at least the implication of _are you sure_ under it, because he nods after a long pause, even though Alex didn’t ask a polar question. “Harris. Will, I think, though my mom always just says things like _the Hudson’s daughter_ or _the Edwards’ youngest son_ so I’m not sure. I remember her being all a tizzy years back because _Jefferson’s eldest just broke it off with that delightful Harris boy, what a scandal._ The shit that passes for gossip out in the sticks. Bullshit, I tell you. But I recognize him.”

He rolls his eyes and does over-exaggerated jazz hands as he’s imitating his mother’s unhealthy interest in the private relationship of two adults completely unrelated to her. Alex snorts dutifully and tries to muster a laugh, because it’s a ridiculous impression, and also because it’s tragically, _hilariously_ twisted that now he’s heard the name he recognizes it. 

William Harris is the freelance graphic designer Jefferson picked out for the latest Mercer project.

John flexes up onto his toes to peer around a gaggle of people heading from the restaurant to the bar to continue their evening in a more _social_ manner and Alex pulls sharply on his arm. “Stop being so fucking obvious, it’s going to look like we’re _staring,_ ” he hisses, even as he, admittedly, cranes his neck to try and see if the two of them are still as deep in conversation as they had been before their view had been obstructed. 

“I _am_ staring,” John says flatly with a shrug, uncaring in a way that Alex would normally be as well, if his skin didn’t feel like there were ants crawling underneath it, doubling exponentially with every second he stands wavering on the spot like an idiot. “I want to _know-_ ”

“Well I _don’t,_ ” he retorts, and ducks away, because if he stands here any longer John’s going to be able to put voice to any one of the thoughts painted across his expressive face, because Alex has no interest in gossiping and speculating like an old hag, and because this whole thing is a _colossal waste of his time._

But definitely not because when the crowd disperses he notices that they definitely _are_ still deep in conversation. 

That would be none of his business, and no reason to flee next door.

He doesn’t go far, though. He _can’t_ seem to go far; gravitates back to that room with a kind of sick curiosity that only increases over the next hour or so. He’s admittedly had half an eye on Jefferson most of the day; Alex has been tense enough all day that he’d not refuse a quick fuck break, and he’s pretty sure their exchange of room numbers was with that _exact_ purpose in mind if the chance arose, but Jefferson’s spent the afternoon glued to Monroe and now the last fuck-knows-how-long with this posh douchebag hogging all of his attention. 

Ducking in and out at least gives him the opportunity to get a better look at the guy without staring as blatantly as John had earlier. 

He’s tall, almost as tall as Jefferson; tall and poised and obviously moneyed, with impeccably neat, coiffed hair and a strong, square jaw and perfectly trimmed stubble, smaller in stature than Jefferson but still broad shouldered and toned enough to carry a suit jacket to perfection, and honestly, Alex thinks if he'd ever, _e_ _ver_ been asked to consider what he would expect Jefferson’s taste in partner to be, he’d have been able to point to an image of _this_ man as a physical embodiment of his answer. He cuts a completely complementary figure next to Alex’s colleague, graceful and elegant in their designer, tailored suits and when Alex finally can’t resist the urge to go over there to the bar and stick his nose in, just for a second, just to hear the guy speak to see if he’s as refined and charming and _atrociously_ genteel as he looks, well, _of course he fucking is._ He’s so exactly, _exactly_ what Alex would picture Jefferson to go for that he doesn’t understand why he feels less satisfied in his own internal accuracy, and more like he wants to throw up. 

He doesn’t think he’s drunk _that_ much, but he retires to his room, anyway.

There’s something darkly ironic, he thinks humorlessly, after his righteous annoyance in Porter’s attempt to try and undermine Jefferson’s vetted choice with blatant nepotism, in discovering that choice to be _just_ as self-serving and preferential.

He feels stupid. That’s what it is, he recognizes it far too easily; the sick notion that there’s been something obvious that he’s missed or interpreted incorrectly, that he's been respecting Jefferson's _hard work_ when in actuality he's maybe just trying to fuck his ex-

Wait. Fuck. _Is_ _he?_

It occurs to Alex, rather belatedly, that Jefferson could well be three floors down balls deep in his ex _right the fuck now_ , and suddenly _that_ possibility is the only thing he can think about.

He doesn’t care whether he is or isn’t. He doesn’t. Alex would just like to _know._ It’s not a weird thing to want, surely, to be appropriately informed on your sexual partner's other activities.

Alex has a vested interest in Jefferson’s dick, after all. He surely has a right to ask, or at least _wonder_ where else he’s putting it.

For his own self-interest.

If Jefferson was ever inclined to ask Alex the same question he’d obviously volunteer the information readily. It’s only polite, in the interest of safety.

(The fact that he’d not have as much to report of late than he normally would is neither here nor there.)

He paces himself into so many circles he gets dizzy; lightheaded and faint and a little bit shaky and so he stretches out on the floor beside the bed, the widest piece of space he can find and lets the pain-pressure of the floor against his shoulderblades and the press of the heels of his sweaty hands into his eye sockets ground him while he tries to _consider the facts_ and work through the question as rationally as possible.

_Theory:_ Jefferson’s recruited his ex-boyfriend so he can fuck him. Or he’s fucking him, so he recruited him. Either one. Either way. Not important. _Breathe_. 

_Evidence for:_ Well. Jefferson’s hired him in the damn first place. He’d sat chatting to him in a hotel bar once the day’s work was done. He's _dated_ the guy before, so it's not like he's not interested in him physically. He’s nice and handsome and civilized, just like Jefferson-

_Evidence against:_ Alex is sure John had said _Jefferson_ had broken it off with the guy, so that _interest_ might be low, though not wanting to date someone is absolutely not indicative of a lack of sexual interest, because hello, _Alex_ , and so maybe that's not even worth _listing_ as evidence. The only thing he can come up with is that, in all honesty, Alex isn’t one-hundred percent convinced Jefferson has any _need_ to hire the guy to bed him, not when he can just _be_ Jefferson-

_Fuck._ He’s not got enough facts to draw any meaningful conclusion one way or another and so his analysis isn’t analysis it’s purely, utterly _speculation_ and no better than John's gossiping. This is fucking stupid. He's _being_ stupid. He’s not doing this. He’s not going to spend the rest of the night sprawled on his hotel room floor going round and round and _round_ in fucking _circles._ He’s got a right to know, and he’s not going to be able to settle himself until he does.

He’s absolutely not thinking about why he gives so much of a shit. He just doesn’t like not being sure of where he stands. It’s fine. He just wants an answer to his question, and to move the fuck on so that he can get some rest tonight. Simple.

It’s not even an unanticipated scenario, he thinks, slipping his way out of his own room and down to the elevators; him showing up at Jefferson’s hotel room door is _not_ an entirely unforeseen outcome to the evening at all. There is _plenty_ of precedence for him to do this without it seemingly remotely like he’s interested in anything other than a good dicking. Hell, if Jefferson’s alone then that’s _exactly_ what he’s going to angle for getting, because it’s been a shitty day and he could do with the release. If he’s not alone, well. It’ll probably be awkward, sure, but ultimately totally explainable. Totally deniable. He and Alex are fucking, after all, however sporadically, and business conferences are practically _made_ for this sort of bullshit. Alex would be completely forgiven for assuming it might be on the table tonight.

And he’ll get his answer either way.

It’s only after he’s knocked carefully on Jefferson’s door that the gross oversight Alex has made occurs to him, because he clearly _has_ drunk a little too much; he feels foggy and a little nauseated, and he isn’t certain he possesses enough control over himself not to hurl if faced with the surprise of something he’s not expecting to see.

But Jefferson opens the door before he can rethink and bail, still in his pinstripe pants and that awful magenta shirt that _should_ look fucking ridiculous but somehow with the cut of the waistcoat and the general _air_ of him manages to come off suave, instead. His tie is undone, hanging loose around his neck and the phantom ache in Alex's wrists make him twitch just at the sight of it, and at the way Jefferson raises an eyebrow at him before stepping aside, glancing up and down the corridor for good measure and it takes care of Alex’s question so entirely, so _immediately_ that he’s too busy relaxing into the satisfaction of getting an answer to worry about why the calm spreading through his bones already feels a little bit like the relief he’d been hoping to get fucked into him. 

He's not sure that's about to happen though, because Jefferson sort of looks more concerned than primed to _get to it;_ eyeing Alex’s face and the tremors in his fingers and once he’s shut the door he says _what’s up_ instead of getting right to what they should both know Alex is actually here for.

He tries to be flippant, he really does, but he can’t quite get _hopefully you are, or you will be_ out of his mouth, and he’d rather poke his own eyes out than ask _so, fuck your ex recently?_ even though it’s definitely _entirely_ rational for him to want to know and so he flounders for a reason to explain-

“Did you tell Adams I blew you for my plan?” he blurts, even though he already knows the answer, because at least it's _something_ , and he anticipates a frown and a denial but he’s not expecting the sheer veracity of the outrage that passes over Jefferson’s face.

“What? Christ. _No._ Did he tell you that?” Jefferson demands, and when he takes a few steps across the room Alex almost, stupidly, thinks he’s about to leave completely to go and _find_ Adams, which is a ridiculous thought because it’s not like Jefferson's the one being called a whore, he’s got no vested interest nor any need to be so annoyed, and so why the fuck would he be. “That’s _bullshit,_ alright? Is _that_ what he was saying to you earlier?”

“Not in those exact words,” Alex mumbles, but the truth of it is obviously evident on his face because Jefferson lays heavy hands on his shoulders and _shakes_ him as he says _I didn’t,_ like it’s important that Alex knows, and he feels guilt curling like a hand around his windpipe because he _does_ know, he already did, and so he does the only thing he can think to do to offer that reassurance; throws his body at Jefferson and wraps himself around the man.

Jefferson is quick, and to his credit he falters for only a second before Alex’s mouth isn’t working on its own; hot, wet tongue tracing the seam of his lips and firm hands moving to his hips to steady him as he crashes abruptly against hard muscle before they wrap around the backs of his thighs and _hoist him up_ and _Jesus fucking Christ,_ he’s well aware of the tempered strength in those arms, how good it feels to be held tight to a surface by them, but being _lifted_ and pinned is something he didn’t know he was desperate for until he suddenly is-

And he _is;_ it bursts out of him in trembling, ragged little breaths until his head spins with the lack of oxygen and sudden sensory overload. He’s shaky and faint and too-needy, on the verge of sobbing; far, _far_ too much, too soon for where they’re at right now and he doesn’t know _why_ and he can’t control it or _stop_ it and it’s not even a few minutes of lips and teeth and tongue before Jefferson picks up on it, before the wall suddenly isn’t pressed hard up against his back anymore, before Jefferson’s backing up and lowering himself to sit on the edge of the bed with Alex in his lap and pulling away, shaking his head with an _I’m not doing this while you’re upset-_

“I’m _not,_ ” Alex protests, teeth grit against the harshness of his breathing, hands fisted in Jefferson’s shirt collar. He’s not upset. He’s maybe a little fervent, a little wilder, riding the adrenaline of the determined energy that had pushed him down here to Jefferson’s door in the first place but he’s not _upset._ There’s nothing for him to be upset _about._

“Well you’re not right,” Jefferson frowns, and he begins to actually untangle his arms from underneath Alex. “Just because I- I’m not some tool for you to punish yourself with, Hamilton. I’m not down to _actually_ hurt you-”

“No. What the _fuck-_ ” Alex splutters, bewildered and obviously emphatic enough that his honesty bleeds through, because Jefferson relaxes a little, slides his hands back up Alex’s legs, carefully. “No. _Fuck no._ That’s not what I want-”

He huffs and leans in, a little slower, and despite Jefferson’s obvious apprehension he relents into the kiss without a thought. It’s clearly almost second nature for him to seize control of it in that way that he does; tacky lips and tongue licking into Alex’s mouth and up along his jaw until Alex’s head is thrown back on a groan with Jefferson nosing down the line of his throat. He’s obviously still aware, though, still able to sense the weird, high-tension mood Alex has somehow wrung himself into and is wary of it, because the hands on his hips are light and cautious instead of bruising and firm and when he opens his mouth against Alex’s neck it’s to ask _then what do you want_ like he’s trying to make it clear he’s not willing to make that call for the moment.

“I don’t _know_ \- I want-” Alex mumbles, distracted into a far-too-pitiful moan when large hands shape the curve of his ass and pull him closer, tighter against a firm chest. He doesn’t know, he can’t think like this, too focused on the feel of Jefferson underneath him; his thighs between Alex’s spread legs, his shirt between Alex’s grasping fingers, his hair against Alex’s face as he presses calming lips to his skin, gentle and cushioning and reassuring just like when he-

“-call me _baby_ again-”

They both freeze.

Oh _fuck._ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck-_

Jefferson pulls back a fraction and Alex _panics;_ crushes their mouths together, _hard,_ because they really don't need to address that fucking _trainwreck_ of a request, because he’s really, _really_ not sure the whole _reassuring_ thing is going to stretch as far as not laughing outright in Alex’s face, like he’ll have finally found the limit of what Jefferson’s willing to humor, and because the door is definitely too far away to reach, even if he tries to dive for it. Maybe if he tries to slowly edge-

Jefferson doesn’t really get on board with his plan, though, because he wraps one arm tight around Alex’s waist to hold him in place and prevent the uncomfortable backwards-and-away-shifting before he even really starts, detaches their faces carefully and Alex screws his eyes closed and braces, feels the hot, unsteady, too-close puffs of Jefferson's breath against his skin where his face is still _there_ , every inch of him coiled tight like an overwound spring, because it’s going to be _so fucking horrible_ if Jefferson’s about to-

“You know something?” Jefferson says, lips brushing against Alex's cheek as he does, and it’s weirdly conversational, forcibly light, even though his voice is rough. “You were right. Fredericks _is_ a prick.”

Alex’s confusion is accompaned by the fractional easing of his spine, though it's marginal as he continues waiting for the axe to fall...but bewilderingly, it never comes.

“Isn’t he though?” he eventually coughs out, when his silence is getting more awkward than his embarassment, hoarse but so relieved by the reprieve he doesn’t stop to consider whether he’s being deliberately distracted, mostly because he’s then too busy realizing what Jefferson’s just _said_ and snorting himself into laughter, breathless and disbelieving. “-wait, _fuck,_ did that _hurt_ on the way out? _Say it again-_ ”

"Oh shut the fuck up,” Jefferson says dryly, but he sounds amused, and just when it’s been long enough of a pause that Alex thinks he’s going to ignore the demand he presses soft lips to the curve of Alex’s ear. It feels like he’s smiling when he murmurs; “ _You were right, Alexander._ Christ, I bet you could get off on that alone, couldn’t you?”

“Quite possibly,” Alex breathes, wriggling in Jefferson’s lap, because he’s not going to deny the interest flooding him in the absence left by the receding humiliation. He’s been waiting for two entire years to hear those three words from _this_ man; too fucking right he’s enjoying it. Maybe a little too much, heat and warmth flooding through his gut and his chest and making him grin, but who the fuck is Jefferson to judge him. “Quick, tell me my budget cut-offs are entirely reasonable and appropriate for your needs and let’s see what happens-”

“Fuck no,” Jefferson snorts, but he does relinquish his hold on Alex’s waist to grip his hips, slowly draws him back close again from where he’s scooted back, and the shifting pressure between their bodies has them both inhaling sharp and deep and Alex hums in pleasure at the contact and presses down again. Jefferson kisses the skin underneath his ear. “Now, _what do you want?_ Can’t give it to you if you don’t tell me, doll.”

Alex could weep at the slow roll of Jefferson’s hips up into his, and at the gracious do-over Jefferson’s obviously giving him, a clear benediction, but he doesn’t, because he’s too busy trying to answer the question beyond _fuck, I don't care, just give it to me_. There are plenty of things that he wants, that he fantasizes about, that he gets himself off at just the _thought_ of, but they all seem to blur together the second he’s actively forced into thinking about it and his hands press tight into the hard expanse of Jefferson’s chest at the breadth of the choices in front of him, abruptly imagines those muscles working under his hands, flexing and moving as he digs his fingers into them, working himself down over and over-

“I wanna ride you,” he says, and then, even though Jefferson’s already gripping a little tighter, a low, satisfying, approving noise rumbling through his chest into Alex’s, he asks nice and polite, because Jefferson might be wanting Alex to call the shots for once, but they’ve been doing this long enough that Alex knows what he likes and gives it to him without thought, grinds down into Jefferson’s lap and murmurs. “ _Please._ Fuck, please let me fuck myself on you. I’ll make it good for you, I swear, please just let me make you _come-_ ”

Jefferson groans into his neck, mutters _Christ yes, fuck, whatever you want,_ ragged and unsteady as he gets his hands under Alex’s shirt, and it’s obvious then, at least to Alex, as they’re both grappling and pulling at fabric, that he's in the driver's seat, because there's no taking him apart until he’s a delirious, begging _mess_ like Jefferson has before, there’s just _need;_ Alex's impatience and hunger to _get going_ allowed to roam free and wild and bleed into the both of them until they’re single-minded and utterly focused on the goal of _getting him the fuck inside Alex’s body right now,_ and five minutes later - riding two of Jefferson’s fingers shoved tight and deep, hurried and panting - he’s still not ready, really, not stretched quite enough but he can’t- he needs- he _wants-_

“I want- I want- _fuck,_ I-” Alex mumbles, but can't keep his words straight, thinks it has something to do with Jefferson’s teeth embedded in his collarbone, but after the man’s bitten down until Alex whines and licked over the skin he finds he can’t control them any better either, because the fingers inside him curl right fucking _there_ and any hope for making sense evaporates completely, even as Jefferson presses him for it, low and demanding.

“ _T_ _ell me-_ ”

“I want- want it. Fuck, _fuck_. I want it _now._ I want it tight, I want it to _ache,_ I want- I want to get hard every fucking time I sit down in those stupid, uncomfortable fucking chairs tomorrow and _feel_ it. I want it like that _all the time, I want-_ "

He has to take a breath, eyes closed and whimpering, hands gripping tight to Jefferson’s shoulders as the guy's litany of _fuck, fuck, fuck_ accompanies his fingers being pulled out quickly, and Alex _would_ laugh and bask in his own ability to reduce him to such a goddamn mess, _would_ make a smartass comment about how Jefferson’s supposed to be the civilized, _composed_ one of the two of them, except he’s too busy using all of his shaky focus to hold himself up unsteadily as Jefferson rolls a condom on and guides him down, too busy groaning and luxuriating in that feeling that he can’t ever get _enough_ of as he sinks and stretches and _burns_ and gasps and lets his mouth run away with him-

“I want- want you to tie my hands back and fuck my face until I _cry._ I- I want you to plug me open and bend me over in the office- I want- want you to hold me down and make me take it with no prep at all, fuck me open slowly with just your cock, even if it takes _forever-_ fuck, oh _god_ _-_ ”

“Jesus _Christ,_ Hamilton-" Jefferson grits into his shoulder, teeth bared, hands bruising-tight around his ass and Alex whimpers breathlessly in answer as he settles and adjusts, full and shaking and sweating and _perfect_. He pushes Jefferson back, even though the guy doesn't seem to want to get his mouth that far away from Alex but he goes so that Alex can get his hands where he’d wanted them, pressed up against those ridiculous fucking abs that go tense and taut beneath him when he lifts off and rolls his hips back down with a slow twist and a squeeze that makes Jefferson groan and strain up, eyes dark and greedy as he watches Alex get to work.

Alex knows he does this well, knows how to make it _good,_ knows how to lift and roll back down, _hard_ , with a filthy grind and clench at the end, again and again and _a_ _gain,_ angling the cock inside him into _just_ the right place as he goes fast and relentless until his arms shake and his legs tremble, focused and determined like it’s his sole fucking purpose in life to drive a man into his climax like being hit by a fucking train, until whoever is under him _whines_ for it-

Jefferson’s no exception, fingers digging deep into the meat of Alex’s thighs, hips reflexively chasing Alex’s up every time he lifts, bitten off moans and grunts as Alex works him over and he keeps fucking _blinking,_ like he’s so determined to _see_ that he has to fight against the instinct to close his eyes to ride out the pleasure and something in Alex burns hot and bright at being able to put that look on his face, being able to make him feel _that good-_

He knows it’s good, because he can feel it too, thick pressure and heat gathering low and weighty in his stomach, and because Jefferson fucking tells him so, over and over, and if Alex had thought that laying back and taking what someone else had to give him would curb that running filth that’s had Alex coming back since the very start, he’d have been dead fucking wrong. He punctuates each grind or clench or push with a _god, yes, just like that_ or _so good, you feel so good baby_ or _fuck, fuck, Alex-_

Alex has to shut his own eyes, because he thinks if he doesn’t, if he doesn’t stop taking it in then Jefferson, hair wild and face blissed and arching up off the bed like he can’t help it, then _Jefferson_ is going to be the only thing he can think about the next time he does this with someone else. Eventually, inevitably when this is done and there’s someone else under him like this, between his legs, _inside him;_ if he’s not careful _this_ is all he’s going to see and won’t that be the most tragic, depressing fucking thing-

So he closes his eyes and tips his head back and loses himself in it instead, lets his body do what it _wants_ to do and wrings sweat and curses and pleasure from the both of them until he’s weak with it, until he feels like his limbs are nothing but jelly each time he pushes up, until he can’t be sure how long it’s been, but it still doesn’t feel like long enough when Jefferson’s hand curls around his cock, solid and sure and he whines both his approval and disapproval, because despite his impatience to _get going_ he’s not _done,_ because it's _good_ , and because he'd said _please let me make you come_ and he fully fucking intends to-

"Christ you think I'm not hangin' on by a fuckin' miracle thread," Jefferson grunts incredulously when Alex tries to articulate this, stilted and choppy though his protest is, and his voice is a complete contrast to the steady stroke of his palm, accent thick and heavy, and when Alex looks, properly looks, he's _wrecked;_ damp with sweat and pupils blown wide and desperate and white knuckled on Alex's hip. "Fuck, you’re killin’ me here. C’mon baby, wanna feel you-"

For once, Alex is completely disinclined to argue, and so he doesn’t, nods fervently, fucks down onto Jefferson’s dick and forward into his hand and when he comes the world spins a little, wobbly and blurred and the ringing in his ears is so high pitched that he barely hears Jefferson’s low _that’s it sweetheart, come on, give it up for me_ as he shudders through it, barely manages to hold himself up, loose and shaky for the few seconds it takes for Jefferson to grip hard and fuck up into him just a couple more times before he falters and folds, and Alex faceplants gracelessly into the guy’s heaving chest. 

He'd come to the conclusion, before, maybe the last time they'd done this - though not that he'll ever admit it - that Jefferson's whole hardline on _aftercare_ is actually quite nice. It's nice not to have the uncertainty, at least. It's nice that he knows what's expected of him. It's nice that if he slumps and checks out for a few long minutes he's not going to get a weird look or an awkward comment, because they've already agreed that it's practically _r_ _equired,_ and it takes all of the guesswork away, and so he leans into the boneless, sloppy thing his body wants to do and just breathes and drifts, reeling for a while, mashed up against Jefferson's chest, because he's pretty sure that's what he's expected to do, though - actually - Jefferson probably didn't intend for Alex to do it laying all over him-

He doesn't seem to mind, though, doesn't seem to be at all inclined to move Alex much beyond shuffling him carefully to deal with the condom, and Alex almost opens his mouth to offer to shift, because maybe Jefferson's too polite to, y'know, just _push him off_ , except then there are fingers in his hair and that's something else that's quite nice too, actually, something that manages to keep that soft, cushioned, reassuring feeling wrapped around him just that little bit longer, and so he doesn't, and he doesn't, and he _doesn't_ , right up until he thinks he probably _should,_ because he's going to pass out soon and there's no way Jefferson's going to want him doing _that_ all over him, polite or no, but when he grumbles and stretches-

"S'long way up all the stairs to the eighth, could jus' stay here y'know," Jefferson mumurs, and he doesn't sound as sleepy as Alex feels but he _must_ be, or Alex must have fucked him utterly stupid because he seems to have forgotten the function of _elevators._ It's almost like he can _hear_ Alex's confusion, though, because he then makes an effort to clarify exactly where the fuck he's going with the suggestion, what he's thinking, slow and measured. "-can go again in the morning that way, hm?"

It's not an unenticing thought. It's been a long, long time since Alex has really done morning sex, it's just not a thing he gets around to doing and this clearly occurs to Jefferson at the same time because he follows up with _bet you'd like that, slow and chilled, could just wake you up all loose and sleepy and ready to go_ -

"Or just don't wake me up," Alex breathes before he can stop himself, that one particular, _burning_ fantasy rising unbidden and unrestrainable in the face of getting as close to reality as he's ever given it liberty to before, because if not _Jefferson_ then who, and despite how utterly fucked out he feels, he still twitches and squirms with undeniable interest because _fuck_. Jefferson inhales a sharp breath and loses it on a tight, strangled noise.

_"Fuck._ That do it for you?" he says, like the strain in his voice doesn't suggest the feeling is mutual. "Jus' roll you over and get to it? Won't even have to be _awake_ to make me feel good, huh?"

Alex hums, low and pleased and interested, because he _is,_ because _god_ , just the _thought_ has his skin prickling all over as Jefferson says _just take me anytime, wouldn't you_ and he fucking _would,_ and it's not until Jefferson's other hand strokes up his back, rubs a circle there to match the ones being traced into his scalp that Alex pauses, held immovable somewhere between the soothing passes of Jefferson's palms and the potential indulgence of one of his favorite fantasies.

It's not until Jefferson murmurs _stay, then, and we can see about that_ that Alex gets the sudden, sharp, completely unsettling, _confusing_ feeling that not only does he _want_ to, but-

With the idle, casual sensation of those hands on him, muddying his thoughts, he’s also not completely, one-hundred percent certain that if he did, it would even be for the fuck.

The entire reason Jefferson's even fucking _asking._

He's up and grabbing his clothes before he even really realizes he's moved; dizzy and disoriented from moving too fast but determined all the same. 

He thinks, through the mess of getting dressed that he mumbles something about them _getting around to trying that out at some point, sure but not right now-_

"Can't exactly turn up to early breakfast in last night's clothes, can I?" he throws out, because obviously, because that's entirely reasonable, and _fuck, fuck, he can't breathe, he can't freak out. Not here, not now._ Jefferson sits up and his mouth opens and closes a few times before his shoulders uncurl and he nods.

"Yeah, yeah, probably not," he says slowly, and hands Alex his tie from somewhere underneath the pillow.

Alex resolutely doesn't look at him as he takes it. 

"Good luck with your presentation tomorrow," he blurts, _stupidly,_ but it’s okay, he's okay, because he's gone before Jefferson says _thank you._

If he even does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- Vous voilà, ma chère. Dis-moi, tu veux me baiser habillé comme ça / There you are, my dear. Tell me do you wanna fuck me dressed like this  
> \- Réflexion très rapide / Very fast thinking  
> \- Notre offre est toujours ouverte, petit lion / Our offer is still open, little lion  
> \- Un autre ménage à trois peut-être / Another threesome maybe  
> \- Tu es belle chérie / You're beautiful darling  
> ~~~  
> Thomas asking _what do you want_ and Alex having no good goddamn clue is the mood of this entire chapter.  
> Actually, of this entire section.  
> Fuck, no wait, it's just the mood of this whole story. Whoops.  
> ~~~  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

Thomas has the niggling feeling he’s messed up. 

Somehow. It’s difficult to know.

Impossible, actually, because unbelievably, the closer he gets to Hamilton the _less_ goddamn sense the guy seems to make, but there’s really only one way to interpret that particular dressed-and-out-in-under-two minutes-like-the-fucking-room-is-on-fire situation after Thomas had said _stay,_ and so he’s relatively sure he’d either misinterpreted those signals entirely, or at the very least had prodded too hard at that invisible line of Hamilton’s comfortability last night, despite making an effort to couch his offer in the safe promise of a morning replay, had _tried_ to come at Hamilton on his own terms and he’d thought-

Well. He’d just thought maybe-

Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.

He’s even more convinced of his overstep when he runs into Hamilton on the way to breakfast the next morning; deep, dark bags under his eyes and coffee and half a bagel already in his hands as he dashes through the dining room like he’s got somewhere urgent to be even though nothing damn well starts for another fifty minutes and literally barreling _into_ Thomas because he’s so preoccupied. Thomas thinks he’d be forgiven for thinking Hamilton’s dashing about trying to avoid _him,_ because when Hamilton realizes who’s chest he’s just headbutted he sighs and curses, shoulders slumping in defeat and eyeing the sad remains of his bagel now littering the floor. There’s a chunk of his hair already come free of it’s tie like he’s slung it up quickly and hurriedly and Thomas’s fingers twitch to move it out of his face because that’s almost an instinctive habit now, wanting dark, silky strands under his fingers, but there’s a time and a place and it’s not seven-fifteen in the morning in a hotel dining room surrounded by their industry’s finest.

Besides, without Thomas’s dick in him somehow, or without Hamilton having just come, Thomas thinks touching Alexander so casually like that would probably have been over his line of _acceptable,_ anyway. He almost hopes it’s the element of taboo to it - that he's not _allowed to_ \- that makes it such an appealing notion and not the fact that he just _wants_ to, but there’s no way to convince himself of it for longer than a few seconds because there are a hell of a lot of people he's _not allowed_ to touch and yet only one of them has him exerting actual _effort_ not to. He grimaces. Hamilton scowls at the floor.

“ _Motherfucker-_ ”

“Good morning to you too,” Thomas says flatly as Hamilton picks up his ruined bagel and makes a grumbling noise.

“Is it? The wifi in this place is for shit, there’s a crease in my jacket that I can’t iron out, and some fucking asshole just threw my breakfast on the ground,” Hamilton bitches, and when Thomas says _it’s free though, right, just get another,_ he waves an annoyed hand. “That’s not the _point,_ Jefferson, Jesus.”

He finishes the remains of his coffee in three gulps and goes for a refill, tension riding the line of his shoulders and Thomas follows, wonders if it means anything at all that Hamilton looks like he’d gotten about as much rest as Thomas had last night, tossing and turning and trying to figure out _what the fuck._

“You look like a corpse,” Thomas observes, and hopes his own lack of rest isn’t as evident. Hamilton flips him off around the handle of the coffee pot without looking. “Sleep is a necessary human function. Don't know if anyone's ever told you.”

“Well fuck you very much,” Hamilton retorts, huffy and businesslike, like his eyes aren’t a little bloodshot and like he’s not narrowing his eyes at the half-empty carafe and clearly thinking about trying to inject caffeine intravenously. “I’ve got far too much shit to do for that. Budgets to shrink, people to ruin, diabolical schemes for world domination to plan-”

They’re not going to talk about it, Thomas registers as he breezes on; the jittery, slightly too-quick-to-be-completely-casual quality to his chattering the only indication that there might even be anything to talk _about,_ blink-and-you-miss-it, really, with how fast and messily he talks anyway, but Thomas doesn’t blink much when looking at Hamilton anymore and so he doesn’t miss it, even if he can’t interpret it with any kind of meaningful insight. For all he knows Hamilton could just be on his fifth coffee instead of his second.

He doesn’t know why he ever even thought that they might actually revisit what had happened last night, doesn’t know why he expected anything other than this, because that’s how it is, entirely _separate;_ once they’re done and their clothes are back on Hamilton makes sure to slam that door as hard as he does the one to Thomas’s office, and so Thomas doesn’t really know _why_ he’d ever thought this time might be different, but the sinking feeling in his gut tells him that he had been stupid enough to do just that.

Maybe because it had _felt_ different. Maybe because Hamilton had snuffled absently into his chest for an _age;_ so long that Thomas had almost thought he’d fallen asleep again, had just stayed there; a warm, slightly-sticky, but tragically-far-from-unpleasant weight that Thomas would have been more than willing to _endure_ until morning. Beyond. Maybe because Hamilton had actually, _voluntarily_ come to him while upset; the trembling fingers and almost painful sounding little breaths verging on sobs, and even the way he’d vehemently, ridiculously _denied_ any such thing all far too similar to that evening after their fight to be anything other than signs of distress.

Thomas had learned enough that first time to see that an upset Hamilton needed distracting. A calm counterpoint of a distraction, though, not the way Alexander seems to keep trying to do for himself; denials and insistence and pressing scrabbling, urgent hands at Thomas’s belt or in his hair like he needs an outlet that will mask it as something else so that he can keep saying _I’m not,_ like rushed and forceful and intense is ever going to do anything other than heighten his already spiraling emotions rather than ease them.

And so maybe Thomas had been a little pleased with himself, with how he felt like he’d managed to derail Hamilton and bring him down from what had seemed like the point of tears to a place where he could curl up on Thomas’s chest, humming happy and satisfied with Thomas’s hand in his hair. Maybe he’d thought it _was_ different, this time, because despite his pathetically growing addiction to that open _unguardedness_ of Hamilton's face when he's under Thomas, he'd still felt like he'd maybe been allowed to see something even rarer. 

Maybe he’d thought Hamilton might actually _want_ to stay, if he made the offer as unintimidating as possible. Maybe-

And yet, maybe Hamilton had been upset, come for a convenient fuck to get it out of his system, gotten what he’d wanted, and left.

Maybe his comfort had had nothing at all to do with Thomas himself and everything to do with the service he’d been able to provide. Maybe Thomas had completely misread and is being exactly what Hamilton has always accused him of; egotistical, self-important and overinflated. It’s entirely possible. 

Entirely probable.

And entirely depressing. 

Not that Thomas will ever know either way, because Hamilton is a stubborn little asshole; if he’s decided he doesn’t want to acknowledge it there’s going to be nothing Thomas can do to change that, even if he _wanted_ to find out where, when, _whether_ he’d been mistaken, and he’s not even sure that he _does_ want to know, doesn’t want to have Hamilton confirm it to his face - eyebrows raised and smirking, _incredulous -_ that it hadn’t been anything at all like Thomas had maybe thought it had, for a second.

And so of course it’s being added to the slowly growing list of things that they don’t talk about, unspokenly agreed as off-limits - _Hamilton staying up all night to help him, their fight, Thomas’s apology, that one time after the vote had been announced, Alexander saying call me baby and curling into his chest_ \- that growing list of things that don’t mean anything except for how their mere presence on the list clearly indicates that they maybe, possibly, do. 

It pisses him off, actually. Thomas feels annoyance and stupidity and bitterness bubbling up under his skin as Hamilton grumbles on, all _I thought this place was nice, why is this coffee fucking sludge, Jesus somebody up there fucking hates me, how am I meant to function on this godforsaken shit._ Annoyance, because though he's loathe to admit it there’d been a moment there - more than one moment, in all honesty - that a horrible, insistent, bright little ball of tingling warmth had bloomed in his gut and felt something terrifyingly close to _hope;_ a moment or two that he’d actually thought that _maybe-_

And now, in the too-early and too-harsh hotel-flourescent light of day, with Hamilton tired and irritable and doing his damnedest to steamroller over any awkwardness, Thomas can’t seem to _squash_ that ball, no matter how much of a problem he can already see it becoming; brightness and warmth and _what if_ and _maybe_ flaring all over again just because Hamilton pauses and then pours a second cup for Thomas, pushes it gently his way.

He can’t shove the stupid feeling back down where it belongs; smothered and silent and cowed under a million layers of _never gonna happen_ and he’s _pissed_ at Hamilton for doing this to him, for confusing him in the damn first place, because it’s one thing to realize you’ve got it bad for someone who’s only interested in your dick, but it’s another entirely to be forced to torture yourself with _what if,_ just because you misread a few mixed signals and now can't _stop_ -

“You really don’t have to do all that much here,” Thomas bites out, reflexive, annoyance bubbling over and aimed squarely at the source of his frustration. “Just sit quietly, keep your mouth shut and don’t piss anyone off too much while the rest of us bring in the interest. It’s not _that_ difficult, Hamilton.”

Alexander visibly flinches and glares and Thomas grits his teeth, sips his too-hot coffee to distract from how that somehow makes him feel worse, not better.

“I hope your automatic pointer runs out of fucking batteries this afternoon, you _dick,_ ” Hamilton snaps, one hand balled into a familiar fist at his side as he turns stiffly on his heel and storms away.

It’s not until he’s disappeared from view, slipped out of the door as a group of people Thomas doesn’t recognize - that clearly hit the bar a little too hard last night for there to be another day and a half of this to go - come in looking for the greasiest thing they can find, that Thomas notices he’d forgotten to even replace his breakfast.

* * *

The thing is, Thomas isn’t even totally convinced he _did_ misread anything, and doesn’t that make it all the more fucking confusing. It _is_ torturous, going over and over and _over_ it until he wants to bleach his brain, until he moves blankly and woodenly through his day completely and utterly distracted because he can’t stop coming back to _what if._

It's driving him fucking insane.

Those things _did_ happen, that little ball of _something_ whispers persistently at him. However Thomas chooses to interpret them, whatever Hamilton had intended, they _did_ happen; Alexander _had_ come to him looking for comfort. He _had_ wrapped himself around Thomas like he wanted something other than a fuck. More than.

He _had_ said _call me baby_ like the endearment was something more to him than a by-product, more than Thomas losing control of himself whenever Hamilton was soft and open for him, moments of weakness that seem to come when he’s _Thomas’s,_ however briefly, and _fuck it all,_ now it appears to be something Alexander actively _likes_ Thomas is going to have even less motivation to curb it until it really gets him into trouble.

He _had_ stayed, sprawled atop Thomas like a particularly bony blanket, warm and loose-limbed and even-breathed for longer than Thomas had thought him capable of.

And before that, Will had said-

Well, Will had said a lot of things, starting with _New York looks good on you, Tom_ and following up with _I saw your mother at a summer fundraiser last month, she seems well_ and _no, I got rid of that place, far too dark_ and it had been nice, catching up, if a little awkward considering Thomas had called him not a few weeks ago out of the blue to bemoan the whole _Hamilton_ situation before he’d asked _how’s work lately_ and somehow wound up offering Will a freelance gig.

He’s lucky Will is the most easygoing, forgiving person on the entire damn planet, really - _though hadn't that always been his problem; too nice, too agreeable to Thomas's overbearing until he'd felt like he'd been the only person in that relationship -_ because he’d taken it in stride, because he’d chuckled his amusement down the phone and said _you are far too used to the confidence of a sure thing_ and because last night when Hamilton had shown up in the middle of their conversation and been a rude little asshole, Will had been entirely gracious about it, even as Thomas had been thrown off by the surprise of a familiar, sharp little elbow digging into his ribs and the fluttering in his chest at realizing the body nudging him aside at the bar and pressing far-too-close into his space was definitely _not_ an unwelcome one.

“Hamilton, they don’t sell bullshit hipster craft beers here,” he’d drawled, even though Hamilton didn’t drink beer, was a sucker for something sweet just like his coffee; sugary dessert wines and Drambuie and Amaretti, just something else Thomas was probably not supposed to have noticed but had. He’d put one hand in his pocket just to keep from curling it around a slim hip as Hamilton had crowded tight in front of him to try and get the attention of the barman and used the other hand to do it for him. Anything to get him served and _away_ from his crotch in public before Thomas humiliated himself. “You’ll have to start drinking like a grown up.”

“Did you actually just _snap your fucking fingers_ at that poor man, you ass?” Hamilton had craned his head back to say, incredulous, and he’d looked a little more pissed off than the situation really required, Thomas had thought. “ _Rude._ He’s not your fucking _slave_ you know. Oh my god, you’re one of _those_ people-”

It was only when Will had laughed quietly and added _he is right, you know_ that Thomas had even remembered he was there, which made him feel a little like an asshole, and even more like one when after stepping back so that he was maybe, _maybe_ not so flush up against Hamilton's back Alexander had made no effort to bridge that gap with any kind of manners. He’d leaned against the bar and waited in pointed silence while his drink was mixed - because of course he’d ordered something fucking ridiculous just to thumb his nose at Thomas; _no craft beers eh, I guess I’ll have to have a cosmo_ \- one eyebrow raised until Will had introduced himself instead.

Now that Thomas knew what Adams had been whispering in his ear earlier that evening to have put that tight, angry, almost-hurt look on his face, Hamilton’s foul mood made a hell of a lot more sense, but at the time it had left Thomas completely bewildered, because he’d glared at Will’s outstretched hand for a good ten seconds before offering his own, with an _Alexander Hamilton, charmed_ that had managed to sound completely, utterly _uncharmed._ Thomas had almost stepped in to mutter at him to _stop being a shit,_ but he’d been around Hamilton enough to know that’d probably just lead to a fight and Hamilton had already been taking his drink and straightening so it had been pointless, anyway.

“Try not to _snap_ at anybody we’re trying to impress, Jefferson,” Hamilton had said to him flatly and Thomas had rolled his eyes.

“Try not to steal the towels while you’re on the company dime, _Hamilton,_ ” he’d retorted, and for the first time that evening he’d seen what might have been a genuine smile as Hamilton had snorted _bitch, I am the company dime._

“That’s the guy, isn’t it,” Will had asked after a minute, sounding amused, and when Thomas had looked up, his mouth had been twitching. Thomas had said _hm, what?_ even as Will had nodded in the direction Hamilton had gone. “Your _just sex_ guy. That cute, pissy little thing full of attitude somehow managing to get away with wearing _Chucks_ to a corporate networking event. That’s him, isn’t it?”

Sure enough, when Thomas had snapped his head up to look, he’d spotted familiar, well worn sneakers poking out from under Hamilton’s suit pants as the guy flitted out of the door into the adjoining room and _f_ _or Christ’ sake Alexander._

“He’s not _mine,_ ” had been all Thomas could think to reply, words bitter on his tongue. 

“I thought so,” Will had smiled patiently. “In that case I really don’t think you have much to be concerned about there, Tom. I was starting to wonder what I could possibly have done to the poor chap to warrant the amount of glaring he’s been ducking around doing for the past hour but now it makes perfect sense.”

“I really do apologize if he’s been being an asshole, but sadly that’s entirely normal for him.” Thomas had replied, rubbing his eyes, and Will had shaken his head, patted his arm reassuringly, always too-kind and understanding.

“You don’t publicly rub yourself all over someone you’re having _just sex_ with like that, Thomas. He may as well have _climbed_ you, for Heaven’s sake. The last time he was in here I thought he might come at me with a toothpick. I know you only like to chase when you think you’ll win, darling, but for your own peace of mind I’m telling you, _you’ll win._ ”

Thomas had shrugged it off and smoothly suggested he tender a contract for the marketing of their next tech release instead, moved on without thinking too much of it, but several hours and a _Hamilton_ later he couldn’t help revisiting it, and revisiting it and _revisiting it._

It’s frustrating because he doesn’t need yet _another_ reason to spend his days think about the man, like he’s not already going to lose hours to the memory of Alexander sliding down onto him; the first time he’s been able to _see_ the expression that accompanies that little groan he always makes when Thomas fills the empty space inside him, eyes wide and dazed and black with arousal, flushed with exertion and impatience, that mouth of his bitten-raw red and open on a breathless _oh_ he hadn’t finished, completely and utterly _ruinous,_ because Thomas is now never going to want to look _anywhere fucking else_ the next time he buries himself in Hamilton.

_Next time,_ and there _would_ be a next time, because hadn’t he said all of those things, those completely _incendiary_ things he wanted Thomas to do to him so of course there _has_ to be a next time and _fuck,_ if he’s not lost in thinking about Alexander with his head thrown back and reveling in bouncing on his cock, or the choked off way he’d whined _no, no, fuck, please, m’gonna- wanna make you come,_ he’s already imagining how he’ll sweat and shake and thrash and _beg_ when Thomas does open him up with just his dick, slow and steady and torturous for them both and-

_Plug me open and bend me over in the office-_

_Call me baby again-_

Fuck.

Thomas is so fucking screwed.

* * *

_[Jem] -_ Well that went fantastically  
 _[Jem] -_ Of the thirty times I've heard it over the past week that was definitely best one  
 _[T.J] -_ Is that bitterness over the raucous applause that I sense?  
 _[T.J] -_ Come now, they clapped for you too  
 _[T.J] -_ Jealousy doesn't become you, Jemmy  
 _[Jem] -_ Enjoy your groupies while you can  
 _[Jem] -_ Monroe's already sniffing around  
 _[T.J] -_ Oh fuck it all  
 _[Jem] -_ Price of fame, eh?

* * *

_[Angelica] -_ Brava  
 _[T.J] -_ Grazie  
 _[Angelica] -_ That's going to be the take home highlight  
 _[T.J] -_ Of course it is  
 _[Angelica] -_ If Alex is an ass, ignore him, he's a little disgruntled  
 _[Angelica] -_ He pitched a fit at the ovation  
 _[T.J] -_ How spectacular  
 _[Angelica] -_ You are both ridiculous

* * *

_[T.J] -_ No criticism? I'm shocked  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Is that an open invitation?  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Fuck, is it Christmas already??  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Do you have a specific topic in mind? Fashion? Accent? Anal-retentiveness?  
 _[T.J] -_ Hilarious  
 _[T.J] -_ You know damn well I mean the presentation  
 _[Hamilton] -_ As if you think I had time for that nonsense  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Why the fuck would I watch you jerk yourself off on stage for three hours just to tell me a bunch of shit I already know  
 _[T.J] -_ Liar  
 _[Hamilton] -_ Showboater  
  


* * *

As frustrating as obsessing over Hamilton is, it’s still infinitely preferable to anything James Monroe has to say to him.

The man’s been practically glued to Thomas’s side for two days now like Thomas is ever going to entertain the guy’s desire for him to _suggest_ that his sister consider Monroe Jr as an appropriate replacement for the guy she’d been seeing up until a few months ago, the news of the separation winding through the grapevine until every family in his mother’s social circle began throwing their sons at his poor sister, because the chance to marry into _Jefferson_ money is apparently something people were still willing to sell their children for.

How disturbing.

Monroe clearly has no conception of the fact that despite being - as he’d so delightfully put it - _the head of the family,_ like Thomas is the fucking _Godfather,_ Mary would have his fucking metaphorical balls if he ever tried to tell her who to date, regardless of whether he thought they were appropriate or not, and this kid doesn’t even sound it; still in college and four years younger than his baby sister and more interested in party yachts than her beloved theater and so _no,_ Thomas doesn’t think that he _will_ make that _suggestion._ She’d laugh him right off the damn estate.

But Monroe holds a fifth of the shares in Washington Industries and is a pretty big name in his own right and so Thomas is familiar enough with the diplomacy of his world to know he should really entertain this for long enough that it doesn’t look rude to turn him down gently after it seems like he’s given it a respectable, _appropriate_ amount of consideration. He didn’t get to where he is without understanding how to play this game.

It doesn’t stop him from getting really fucking bored, though.

Especially considering Monroe won’t stop harping on this Fredericks business; bringing him over to sit and speak with Thomas in the evening and honestly, when Hamilton had been ranting in his office a few days ago Thomas had assumed he was, well, being _Hamilton,_ but having been introduced to the smarmy man yesterday he can’t help but agree. He’s smug and arrogant and absolutely acts like Washington should be grateful to have him even _considering_ selling. The way he keeps leering at the wait staff makes Thomas’s skin crawl and he sort of dreads the possibility of them actually taking on this guy’s facility because Washington’s policy of retaining all acquisitions’ staff members - entirely fucking _inefficient,_ they’re all _goddamn bleeding hearts,_ Thomas had argued at the very start, but he’d lost that match to Hamilton pontificating about _the livelihoods of the little people_ \- is going to mean Thomas has to deal with this guy on a regular basis when he’s managing the fucker and he’d really, really rather _not._

Thomas isn’t even sure why he’s being dragged into these discussions beyond his high position in the company offering some sway in the choice. Possibly due to his meager social connection to Monroe, or the fact that James is studiously _too busy,_ or the fact that Hamilton has less-than-politely _declined_ to sit for a financial pitch three times over the last month, something that seems to have really irritated the guy, because when the subject of financial restitution comes up over dinner, Fredericks complains that his attitude has _not encouraged me to be generous with the price, mister Jefferson, it really isn’t good business, I can’t fathom why Washington keeps him around-_

And yes, it’s an opinion Thomas is certainly familiar with, having expressed it himself multiple times over the years but somehow it now sets his teeth on edge and raises his hackles, a knot of something sour forming in his throat, but not as sour as when Monroe interjects with an amused expression.

“We’ve all wondered that, Herb, but I think he has his uses when one needs a little extra _persuasion._ Or so I hear, eh Thomas?” He chuckles and Thomas’s vision blurs a little with how quickly his stomach turns over. He knows damn well where Monroe’s got _that_ from, and he considers the pros and cons of the quick vs slow ruination of John fucking Adams.

For the first time in what must be _ever,_ Thomas wishes he was Hamilton; that he wasn’t acutely, _painfully_ aware of his constraints, of the potential consequences for both of their careers, his family’s name and their reputation if Thomas lays into Monroe like he’s burning to, wishes he could feel the unrestricted freedom to just fucking _do it_ rather than the confines of knowing he can’t.

As it is, he can still disagree. Which he does, stiffly, jaw aching with how hard he’s grinding his teeth as he grits out _James I have no idea what you’re talking ab-_

“Of course, _of course,_ ” Monroe grins conspiratorially. “Though it’s alright; nothing that hasn’t been known for years, you know. I swear to god, some of those things Washington pulled off during the takeover? No way in hell they happened without _someone_ paying on their knees and I’ll tell you now, it wasn’t George with his mouth open. Honestly Herb, maybe a bit of _that_ would make you feel better about the guy brushing you off-”

“Absolutely _not,_ ” Thomas snaps, fists balling, seeing red, because _fuck the consequences,_ because just the _thought_ of Alexander on his knees for this man, eyes wet and soft mouth swollen and red makes him want to hit something. Repeatedly. “How _dare-_ ”

“Gentlemen,” Washington’s voice cuts an abrupt cold streak across Thomas’s fury as he lowers himself into a seat across the table, calm and genial and exactly like he’s able to tell that somebody’s about to start bleeding and his mere presence defuses it. He’s begrudgingly good at that; the image of respectable, responsible pleasantry in a relatively cutthroat industry is what’s keeping him - _them_ \- so damn popular. Thomas has heard him raise his voice a grand total of twice in the entire two years he’s been back with the company, and admittedly both of those were at he and Hamilton during a fight. Externally Washington is a man who cannot be faulted; their boss always seems to come away looking like he’s made the correct choice in every situation, confident and assured at every turn and that reputation keeps all adoring industry eyes on their company. Thomas loathes it right now as much as he respects it, because there’s no good reason for him to _not_ take on Fredericks’ business besides the man being an intolerable prick, which Washington would never be so outspoken as to use as justification. “-so glad to find the time to meet with you, mister Fredericks. James speaks very highly of you-”

Washington’s going to have to agree, Thomas thinks bitterly, as Washington spends the next half hour leading the four of them in a conversation around the topic of the purchase, Monroe eyeing Thomas warily, clearly having picked up on the punches Thomas had been about to throw, while Fredericks is none the wiser, pitching his bullshit to Washington with the smug air of one who thinks the sale is already confirmed and is now just haggling on price despite the way Washington is amiably non-committal in his responses and the way he raises an eyebrow in mild surprise when a proposed contract of sale is produced and slid across the table.

Thomas can’t help but agree; the gall of bringing such a thing to a _networking_ event as though it was open season on negotiations is classless and desperate, let alone to raise it in the middle of a damn hotel bar. Washington inclines his head thoughtfully.

“I really think it’s far too late in the evening for such-”

“Oh come on, George,” Monroe prompts, settling back in his chair. “Just give it a once over and see if it’s in the right ballpark. Why not?”

Why not indeed, and Washington seems to agree with that epithet, nods _of course_ and picks up the folder, though he starts when something behind Thomas catches his eye, has him smiling and raising a hand in summons and calling out _Alexander, perfect timing, come and take a look at this contract for me, would you-_

When Thomas flicks a quick look backward Hamilton’s paused, mid-wild-gesture, by the looks of it, clearly passing the table while in conversation with Burr, deer-in-the-headlights startled and he half says _sir, I’m not long due for a drink with Phi-_

“It won’t take long,” Washington says firmly, the demand implicit, so Hamilton shrugs _yessir_ and slaps Burr on the shoulder. Thomas doesn’t miss the quick, flat look Burr shoots at his retreating back as Washington makes room at the table for his favored son and decidedly obviously _not_ the person who’s _entire remit is to deal with proposed legal contracts,_ despite being stood right the fuck there. It’s a resentment Thomas recognizes well, even if it’s been notably absent of late and he shoots Burr a sympathetic nod.

As soon as he has the contract in hand, Hamilton flips it open, tilts his chair back onto two legs and rocks absently back and forth as he reads. As Thomas is biting down on the familiar urge to tell him to _sit properly_ he catches Fredericks considering the swaying spread of his knees thoughtfully and is about to cough his disapproval through painfully grit teeth when Hamilton snorts and drops back down abruptly.

“He’s joking, right? This is a joke.” he taps at something a few pages in and pushes it in front of his boss. “We’re not paying him this. We could build our own fucking place for less than this.”

“ _He’s_ right here,” Monroe tuts under his breath. “Let’s not be rude, kid.”

“My apologies, mister Fredericks,” Hamilton smiles in an overly polite tone that makes the man expression turn smug and gloating, but that Thomas has heard far too many times to be fooled into thinking is anything close to genuine, and is absurdly pleased with his own assessment when the smile drops suddenly a second later and he says flatly. “We’re not paying you this. We could build our own fucking place for less than this.”

Thomas is a big enough man to admit that Hamilton being _Hamilton_ is far, _far_ more enjoyable when categorically aimed _away_ from him. He wonders if the warm, fond amusement curling in his chest is the way Washington looks over his little tearaway when Hamilton’s in the mood to terrorize people, wonders if _that_ answers the question everybody asks; maybe the entertainment value is worth the headache he comes with.

“You mean mister Fredericks, _sir,_ ” the man corrects evenly and flicks a level glance at Washington when Hamilton scoffs. “Someone ought to teach him some _manners,_ George. Think I could see myself toward a fairer deal in that case. Always _smoother_ on negotiations when everybody is _polite._ ”

If the implication was lost on anyone at the table, the way he raises an eyebrow and looks at Hamilton when he’s done propositioning their boss is decidedly _not,_ and Thomas can’t help but look too, trying to understand what the _fuck_ Fredericks thinks he’s seeing as he looks over Alexander; rumpled shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie pulled loose and top button undone at the late hour, far too casual in those stupid sneakers of his and the band at his wrist-

Thomas notes with a start that he’s wearing a watch on one wrist and a leather cuff on the other, neither of which Thomas has ever seen him wear before but with his sleeves rolled up he can only assume they’re there to hide his bruises; faded and patchy, as Thomas had seen last night for himself, but still there, faint brown mottling his wrists. They’re one tiny slip away from being broadcast to anyone who cared to look and Thomas suddenly, fervently _wants_ them on show, displayed on him like a visible record of where _he's_ been. He wants Fredericks to catch sight of _his_ marks on Hamilton’s skin and know he has _no goddamn right_ to look at him like that, or even _imagine_ Alexander anywhere _near_ his-

He’s about to interject; a _that is entirely inappropriate_ or _I’m afraid we won’t be doing business with you_ or _put your eyes somewhere else right the fuck now before I make you swallow your own teeth,_ but Hamilton _glares_ at him, at the low, unimpressed, displeased noise he realizes he’s just made, rumbling somewhere down low where his insides are boiling, and he can almost _feel_ the sentiment behind it.

_I don’t want your help_ he says, with his narrowed eyes and his furrowed brow and the downward set to his lips, and of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t want anything from Thomas, not his help, not his comfort, not his _touch;_ nothing. Nothing barring that which he has explicitly _asked_ for, and so why the fuck does Thomas still feel the need to-

“Okay, _one,_ ” Hamilton bites out, leaning in and eyes flat and hard in Fredericks’ direction. “I’m no-one’s fucking _whore._ Two; even if I _were,_ you couldn’t fucking afford me, you desperate, herpes-ridden _vagrant._ I’d not suck your pathetic excuse for a dick if it would guarantee me the goddamn _presidency,_ let alone for a measly-ass discount on your piece of shit company that’s already sinking faster than the fucking titanic, _don’t think I didn’t notice,_ and three; _if you look at me like that again I’m going to ram your fucking facility with an iceberg so hard you’ll wish you-_ ”

“Don’t make threats you can’t keep, Hamilton,” Monroe snaps, and Thomas wants to add _he doesn’t,_ but Hamilton doesn’t _want_ Thomas’s help, he’ll only get chewed the fuck out for it, and so he keeps his mouth shut as Washington puts the contract back down in front of his once-assistant with an _Alexander I'm sure you're mistaken_ before he turns back.

“I apologize, mister Fredericks, I’m confident that that is absolutely _not_ what you were implying. We’re all professionals, here, after all,” Washington says with a smile so calm and seemingly genuine that Thomas thinks for a second the older man must be an idiot, a psychopath or deserving of a fucking Oscar, or perhaps even all three. Beside his boss, Hamilton slips his phone out of his pocket as Fredericks backtracks, eyes still furious, clearly on a path to vengeance and although Thomas knows he doesn’t _want_ defending, he still feels like trash just sitting back and _watching_ like he’s in any way approving of this bullshit, and so if he can’t help then he can at least _distract_ while Hamilton does whatever he's trying to do, and so he does, uses every inch of the tact and charm his mother drove into him to push the conversation around to the final talks of the conference to be held in the morning until Hamilton slams the contract down on the table, phone nowhere in sight as he regards Fredericks flatly before turning to Washington and reporting.

“Aside from the preposterous price, all seems to be in order in a legal capacity, sir. It’s a _crying_ shame his stock value seems to have dropped so recently; I do believe we have policies in place to prevent us from acquiring companies for considerably more than they’re valued at on the market. What a fucking waste of all of our time-”

“My stocks are _f_ _ine,_ ” Fredericks interrupts hotly, finally losing his cool, and if Thomas had been inclined to feel in any way sympathetic toward the man it would have been then, because once he’s gotten to a person’s temper Hamilton’s won and he knows it, because something pleased is lurking behind the venom in his expression. “I mean, they’re not _fantastic-_ ”

“I’d check that again. Your stocks are for shit, _mister Fredericks, sir,_ ” Alexander says, and though he’s trying to keep his tone light Thomas can’t even enjoy the impressive shade of purple Fredericks turns when he pulls out his own phone to do just that, because he knows Hamilton enough to see the tension bleeding out of his white knuckles and the creases around his narrowed eyes as Fredericks huffs and puffs and _this isn’t right, they shouldn't have dropped, something is obviously wrong-_

“We can’t justify outsetting for such a temperamental enterprise, James. It’s just not a viable option,” Washington sighs and stands as Fredericks storms off, already snapping down the phone at presumably his own accountant. “We’d be ripe for accusations of fraud if we overvalue, and at the very least our own rep would definitely suffer for it. Maybe we can revisit if he gets this little fluctuation under control. I do hope you understand.”

“Of course, of course, the company's interests obviously come first,” Monroe agrees, all-too-readily when his own shares, his own money, might suddenly be under threat, absolutely in agreement as Washington, _somehow,_ manages to walk away having made the only sensible choice given the circumstances, even as he’s done the complete opposite of Monroe’s intentions, even as Monroe turns his glare on Hamilton, picking idly at his cuticle and looking supremely uninterested. “What the _hell_ did you do?”

Hamilton’s obviously managed to regain some of his equilibrium, presumably with the absence of both Fredericks and Washington, because the brittle smile he favors Monroe as he touches a mock-questioning hand to his chest - _who, me?_ \- leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, though Thomas smiles anyway, relieved by how much more at ease Hamilton seems now he’s ostensibly removed the Fredericks problem, at least for a while, and he can’t help but appreciate the expression that crosses Monroe’s face.

“Come now, James,” Thomas says evenly, pleasantly. “What could he have possibly done?”

“Yeah _James._ Little, old, _unimportant_ me? What could I have done?” Hamilton raises both eyebrows, seemingly enjoying the moment too much to note, or at least care too much about Thomas’s defense before he looks around. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I actually had plans before this shitshow and I see my cue, so I’ll be off.”

He raises a hand in greeting as he stands and Thomas sees Peggy - stood at the entrance to the hotel restaurant - flip him off before she turns back to her conversation with a woman in red that Thomas doesn't immediately recognize. 

"Hang on just a minute, Hamilton. You can't just-" Monroe glowers, before following Thomas's line of vision. "-what is _she_ doing here? I thought she was in Europe with that _other_ _woman_ of hers-"

Hamilton snorts and stretches his arms above his head. "Reynolds couldn't be fucked to come, and they're kinda her shares too aren't they? That's how marriage works. Don't sound so fucking offended, I'd switch teams if my husband was an abusive peice of shit I couldn't pin down for a divorce too. No need to get bitter about it unless you're _also_ a massive prick to your wife. Oh _wait-_ "

Ah. Now Thomas can see it, though separation and distance and telling her huband to _go fuck himself_ have done Maria Reynolds the world of good; glowing and smiling and so relaxed in comparison to the meek, cowed figure she'd always cut next to the man that Thomas hadn't even recognized her.

He doesn't know _w_ _hy,_ but his stomach drops fifty feet at the truly gleeful grin that spreads across Alexander’s face when Monroe seems to be having the inverse of Thomas's problem, face twisted and glaring as he blusters about how classless it is for Maria to show up here with her _latest tacky, gold digging tramp, who even is that-_

“Who? Peggy Schuyler?” Alexander says interestedly, rocking back on his heels, clearly having stuck around purely to drive Monroe into an early grave in retribution for the events of the last half hour because he obviously delights in the way Monroe freezes.

“ _-mention my Peggy? Ah, Alexander-_ ” someone asks from a foot or so behind Thomas and Monroe, and when Thomas snaps his head up, horrified, he doesn’t even have to look behind him to pick out the owner of the voice, because Hamilton’s eyes are sparkling with a malevolence Thomas is abruptly, desperately glad he’s never had aimed at him. He doesn’t look surprised at all, had clearly seen Philip Schuyler approaching their table but surely, _surely_ he’s not about to-

Of course he is. Of course he favours Monroe a sharp, pointed smile and says brightly; “Oh, _yessir._ Mister Monroe here was just calling her a tacky, gold digging tramp, right?”

Oh god.

Oh _god._

Monroe chokes. Hamilton smiles wider and leans in conspiratorially.

“James, didn’t you need that property bill passing to evade a pesky little tax hike on your mansion? You should probably stop insulting the offspring of people that could help with that, no?”

Thomas watches with some sort of sick, twisted cross between fascination and _awe_ as Hamilton _winks_ and then just wanders the fuck off with his hands in his pockets like he’s not just thrown a sneaker at a beehive.

Thomas dives after him as Schuyler rounds on Monroe, because _fuck that._

* * *

_[T.J.] -_ Add the Monroes to your list  
 _[Mary] -_ Ew  
 _[Mary] -_ I hope they offered you something good _  
[Mary] -_ Gold? Land? Goats?  
 _[Mary] -_ I'm worth a few goats at least, Thomas  
 _[T.J.] -_ I think he offered me a boat, if that makes you feel better  
 _[Mary] -_ That is quite flattering, I suppose

* * *

“Are you fucking _insane_ _?_ ” Thomas demands, catching Hamilton up three-quarters of the way to the elevators. 

He gets very briefly, _very marginally_ sidetracked; his body naturally confused by the second-hand alarm pounding in his chest and the too-familiar feel of Hamilton’s arm under his hand, starts wondering whether Hamilton had _actually_ had plans or whether that had been bullshit, whether anyone would miss either of them if Thomas drags him away right now and keeps him naked until dawn trying to find a little bit more of whatever he’d gotten last night, trying to forget the unbidden image of him kneeling for Fredericks, trying to press his bruises back into Alexander’s wrists, his hips, his-

“Quite possibly, but _fuck it._ He’s an asshole,” Hamilton snorts, and then offers a careless shrug when Thomas thinks _to hell with it_ and asks _I thought you said you had plans._ “-oh, I did. But Philip Schuyler looks a _might_ preoccupied now-”

He grins, too-bright and slightly manic as he tries to peer backward around the corner to survey his handiwork, sways when Thomas yanks him back because like hell they need to get any more involved in _that_ dumpster fire, and when he looks closer Hamilton’s actually a little too pale beneath his dark-bagged eyes and quite obviously crashing from the adrenaline high of being really, _really_ pissed, and when Thomas asks _when d’you eat last_ he says _um_ after such a long, distracted pause that Thomas is pretty damn sure the answer is half a bagel, approximately thirty seconds before crashing into Thomas at breakfast over twelve hours ago.

Thomas is well versed in being irritated with Hamilton's inability to function like any kind of reasonable adult. He’ll even admit to being _marginally_ aware of how many times a week he sees Hamilton eating with his group out in the fresh air and using it to gauge just how busy - _and therefore bitchy_ \- he’s liable to be on any given day with perhaps a _pinch_ of concern, but the urge to actively _do something about it_ is new, and so too is the way it steamrollers right over his desire to get Alexander alone and put his hands all over him again. The way that _uneasy_ feeling suddenly drowns out everything else he wants manages to catch him completely off guard and has him propelling Hamilton toward the restaurant with a _oh come on you fucking liability before you pass out and cause a scene_ before he can change his mind. 

“Okay. Wait, what?” Hamilton blinks, rocks back on his feet a little and bites his lip like he’s reconsidering how easily he’d fallen into step beside Thomas, before he clearly realizes he’s already agreed and to change course now would mean having to do that most unspeakable of things and _back down._ So of course he doesn’t, though he’s obviously unconvinced, frowns as he follows. “Didn’t you already eat?”

“No,” Thomas lies, and then immediately curses himself stupid not only for now having to eat an entire second dinner but also because even as Hamilton neatly sidesteps Thomas’s guiding hand on the small of his back he can’t tamp down that stupid little thing in his chest that seems to be far too happy to ignore the _circumstances_ in favor of burning bright with pleasure that Hamilton’s agreed to have dinner with him in any capacity.

_Christ._ Get it together.

It’s awkward at first. It’s way past a normal dinnertime hour and most of the tables are empty so it’s fucking _quiet,_ even with Hamilton’s under-breath grumbling that Thomas can’t properly make out as the guy crawls into a booth and starts fiddling with all the shit on the table as they order, like he has to be doing _something_ with his hands. Thomas doesn’t even know why the fuck he thought it might _not_ be weird, considering there’s a massive difference between _just about managing to have a reasonably-productive ten minute discussion about work before someone gets called a dick_ and _successfully navigating actual civil mealtime chatter,_ but luckily his current conversation partner could go for hours on the right topic if he’s so inclined - or if he’s annoyed - so all Thomas has to do is say _you know you’ve caused some serious shit there_ to have Hamilton stop tearing his napkin into confetti and glaring at it instead.

“Does it look like I give a fuck? He fucking deserved it,” he bites out, looks like he’s chewing the inside of his mouth as he turns and narrows his eyes at the far wall, serious and intent like he can see through it with x-ray vision to whatever is happening beyond and as he does Thomas examines the sharp lines of his face in profile. Always sharp, Hamilton is, or at least the illusion of such until it’s contradicted with how fucking soft he is on his knees or spread open or snuffling into Thomas’s pillow, his chest. “Besides, I’m sure they’ll find a way to work it out.”

There’s none of the bitterness in his tone that Thomas would have expected, just complete certainty, and it prompts him into a frown. “Does that sort of thing happen often?”

“What sort of thing?” Hamilton asks absently, like some sleazeball _didn’t_ just proposition his mouth as part of a business deal, tracing the grain of the wood tabletop with the tip of his finger. It’s not lost on Thomas that he’s yet to look him in the eye, seems to be doing everything _but,_ but it doesn’t mean Thomas doesn’t notice when his gaze goes flat. “-oh, no. Not really. Used to get it a lot before but- I guess all it takes is one asshole running his fucking mouth to stir _that_ shit up again.”

He couches it a little vague, like they both don’t know exactly who’s responsible, but he must know now that it isn’t _Thomas,_ because he’s sat here saying it with a roll of his eyes and a wry, matter-of-fact tone that doesn’t hold any accusation, and because he can’t imagine Alexander riding him like their fucking lives depended on it last night if he’d had any suspicions to the contrary.

Actually, he'd probably be halfway through ruining Thomas completely by now if he’d had any remaining doubt.

Thomas chooses not to listen to the mean, niggling little voice that mocks just how _easy_ that would be for him, now.

He feels his anger from the night before welling up again, low and not overwhelming but still simmering hotly under his skin, looking for an outlet, because really, _fuck Adams,_ because he had no damn right to interfere with something so fragile that _Thomas_ is afraid to even _look at it properly,_ let alone grab it with a sweaty, unthinking fist and try to choke the life out of it like he had done yesterday without a thought for what he might _cost_ Thomas, just for the sake of getting a few kicks in-

And that’s all he’d been doing, Thomas knows. Just trying to wheedle his way under Hamilton’s skin and piss him off a little for the fun of it, because Thomas knows damn well that _Adams_ is aware of how much they _need_ Alexander. He _must_ know. He might be an argumentative little shit but Hamilton’s had his hands deep in the blood and the guts of this company since before it had even _been_ a company in its own right. They need him almost every bit as much as they need Washington, and he thinks maybe that’s where the resentment and dislike stems from, what his problem is. He’s indispensable where Adams is not.

Thomas tries to remember when that had been _his_ problem too, when he'd hated how intrinsic Hamilton was, how much power he wielded purely by benefit of being the checkbook and Washington’s favorite, but he can’t quite find it in him anymore, just a shred of old, stale bitterness remaining where he’d been so adamantly opposed, because he’s spent far too long paying far too much attention to Alexander and now all he sees is how much of himself he almost literally bleeds into everything he does; how he’ll drive himself to utter distraction until he’s coming knocking desperately on Thomas’s door to bring him down again, all to make sure they don’t lose money here, or that they’re ahead of the curve with those stocks there, or that they’re _not doing business with fucks like Fredericks._ All to make sure they succeed.

Hamilton finally looks at him over the rim of his glass and he looks tired, but he burns anyway. He always burns; dark eyes all calculating and sharp and _proud,_ and how the fuck could anyone look at him and _ever_ think he’d sell himself? It pisses Thomas off more than he can articulate, both on Alexander's behalf and, wretchedly, because it feels like it's trying to cheapen something Thomas already puts far too much value on.

He's well aware that as well as being fucking _hot_ , there's more than a little of his ego being boosted in having an unstoppable force like Alexander willingly on his knees, or face down or _tied_ down and taking whatever Thomas has to give, having him beg and sob and come all over himself because _Thomas said so._

Yeah, there's something to be said for his ego, in that. But he's also always aware that Hamilton lets him have these things, regardless of how much he obviously also wants them. He _let_ Thomas tie him up and finger him to tears. He _let_ Thomas put him over his knee and spank him raw. He _lets_ Thomas come all over his pretty, _pretty_ face-

It's not lost on Thomas that he'd once thought that pinning Hamilton against a wall and forcing him to come in his pants had made him feel good because he'd finally been exerting some power over the other man, finally had some _control_ , when in actuality that power is absolutely an illusion that Hamilton _allows_ him to have. Whether because he likes it, or because he needs it, or both - _Thomas knows it's both_ \- it's still something that _he_ gives up. To _Thomas._ It's a gift that he gives, all want and dependency and _trust_ and having it suggested that he'd put himself in that position for someone who wouldn't understand at all what they were being given, having it suggested that Alexander would give _that_ to someone else in _payment_ devalues that gift in a way that Thomas _can't stand_.

“Doesn’t that _bother_ you?” Thomas can’t keep from asking, because it damn well bothers _him._ It’s a fucking stupid thing for him to say, really, because obviously it does, because just look at Hamilton’s reaction and how upset he’d been the night before. Still, even so, Alexander shrugs. 

“Used to,” he says, sharp and bitter in a way that says it _definitely still does,_ even if he doesn’t want Thomas knowing that. “-guess I try and take it as a compliment, though.”

“In what possible universe is that a compliment?” Thomas gripes, because although he knows damn well that he’s far from the only person to look at Alexander and _want_ him, he’s not sure offers like _that_ come from a place of attraction. Hamilton’s lips quirks up a little at the corner and he loses some of the tension in his shoulders as he leans in like he’s sharing a secret.

Thomas willfully refrains from leaning in too.

“Because it means I’m just _that_ good,” he says, eyes bright. “It means that they look at me, with my _name_ and my _background_ and literally can’t fathom any other way I’d ever get to where I am. It means I’m _unprecedented._ ”

Thomas thinks he feels his pulse in his wrists and in his neck and in his goddamn _temples_ as he says _you're certainly that,_ because when Hamilton makes eye contact it’s fucking intense, and he doesn’t _stop,_ not until he’s clearly made sure there isn’t an ounce of mocking there, because he grins when he flops back against the booth, and Thomas automatically unwinds a little himself on seeing an actual, honest-to-god smile. 

“Besides, if they choose to think that's all I am, it only makes it easier to ruin them,” Alexander snorts, kicks his legs out as he relaxes into the sponge, catches Thomas’s shin as he does, and Thomas is caught on the way he keeps saying _them_ like he considers their associates separate from himself. And from Thomas.

Saying _them_ suggests there's an _us_. 

That stupid little ball finds it's way up into his throat.

“How’d you do that?” he asks, quiet, reflexively bats his foot away with one of his own and a little huff. Hamilton rolls his eyes and kicks him properly right on the bone just to be a shit. 

“Do what?” he says, far too innocently, and winces when Thomas treads firmly on his errant foot to try and save his designer hems. 

“You know what. How’d you sink his stocks?”

Hamilton smiles wide, even as he fails to wriggle his shoe out from under Thomas’s. “Me? I thought we’d established-”

“Bullshit,” Thomas says flatly, finally leaning in and bracing his elbows on the table, contradictory to the rabbitting in his chest and the tingling in his feet where he’s holding one of Hamilton’s still and secure between his. “-tell me. _Please._ ”

There’s a pause, a fairly long one, in which Thomas gets distracted as Alexander runs the tip of his tongue across his lip almost absently, thinking, before he taps at the table with one finger a few times and shrugs again. 

“You know, for all that every fucker here is all about the money, hardly anyone gives a shit about how it actually fucking _works,_ ” he says, careful. “As long as it’s made, nobody gives a fuck about _how,_ or about how it moves, or how it’s _watched._ ”

He leans forward and mimics Thomas’s posture, elbows on the table but rests his chin in his hands, and it's almost _cute._ “There are literal people who’s entire _jobs_ it is to try and predetermine what the next big thing is going to be, so that they can dig their claws into it and ride it like a fucking pony. There are constant discussions being had on what our next move is so that _they_ can capitalise on it. Or what _King’s_ next move was, or what of our _rivals’_ moves are going to be, _whatever._ You met with that mammoth auto company the other month and hey, guess what? Our stocks peaked-”

“We _lost_ that contract-”

“Doesn’t _matter,_ ” Hamilton says bluntly, waving a distracted hand for Thomas to _shut the fuck up_ and let him speak. He knows that gesture well. He’s actually inclined to _do_ it now, though. “-I mean, they levelled out again, sure. But for a while before the news dropped that we lost it we were _up,_ because it was well known you had that meeting. Fredericks has been so fucking vocal that there’s a whole fucking invisible discourse going on trying to decide whether somebody’s going to buy _him_ out or collaborate with his competitor.”

Thomas has at least heard this before. It’s what Hamilton’s preferred strategy would be, he knows, has had it _ranted_ at him enough times and has even had James begrudgingly admit it’s the better option for them, if only to avoid having to take on Fredericks as a subsidiary. Hamilton smiles, self-satisfied and smug.

“Like I said, there are people whose job it is to look for anything that _might_ be an early indication to jump on or off the train as quickly as possible. Anything at all, even something really, _really_ fucking _stupid,_ like the Financial Director of a company that might buy him out _suddenly_ following Fredericks competitor on _Twitter._ Possibly retweeting a few, choice things about their upcoming projects-”

He-

He's not serious. He can't be serious.

“Wait, you’re joking right?” Thomas coughs, appalled. “His stocks dropped because you _followed his rival on twitter?_ ”

Hamilton snorts. “They’ll come back up again soon enough if we don't follow through with the rival, it’s not _that_ damaging. I just needed that motherfucker out of my face for a minute and it worked well enough in a pinch. Hopefully we _can_ follow through and drive him out of business before it stabilizes, though, 'cause y'know. Fuck him.”

He _is_ serious.

Jesus fucking Christ. 

Thomas stares at him. Hamilton blinks back, shifts uncomfortably in his seat a little the longer it goes on. He doesn't move his foot, though. Thomas wonders if he’s forgotten it’s there, no longer trapped but sat neatly and comfortably tight and warm between Thomas’s own.

Thomas hasn’t forgotten. 

He almost laughs when Hamilton obviously mistakes his speechlessness for something else, something more negative and says _look it pays to be aware of the effect you have on the world rather than just thinking you’re just god’s gift to it, alright_ , because there's no fucking way Alexander understands the _effect_ he has, because if he did, Thomas doesn't think he'd be so fucking confused right now.

If he _did,_ Thomas wouldn't be driving himself mad wondering _what the fuck it means_ that Hamilton's still leaned in like he's trying to curl toward Thomas, biting his lip and examining his face like he's maybe not sure if Thomas is judging him.

If he _did_ , then he'd have _moved his fucking foot by now,_ and maybe it _does_ mean-

There's movement to his left, and Thomas notices Hamilton's shift - _leaning back, eyes away, foot yanked free_ \- a second before he notices the plates being set down on the table. 

"Of course you ordered the fucking veal," Hamilton rolls his eyes. "Could you _get_ anymore stereotypical."

* * *

_[Jem] -_ Where are you?  
 _[Jem] -_ Mercer's looking for you  
 _[Jem] -_ Thomas  
 _[Jem] -_??

* * *

“So what the fuck’s up with Monroe? Guy's been up your ass for two days straight and I'll tell you now, it’s not _that_ great-”

“Charming. He’s just...he wants me to hook my sister up with his son. For _social advancement-_ "

“Oh my god, what the _fuck._ Shit like that actually still _happens?_ Are you supposed to _pay him_ for taking her? What the _actual_ fuck Jefferson-”

“I’m pretty sure he’d pay me if I asked, actually-”

“That’s...horrifying. You're not-”

“Of course not. Jesus, what kind of an asshole do you think I am? But it does no harm to be polite about it and show some respect nonetheless.”

“But he’s a _dick-_ ” 

“He’s a dick with a fair amount of money, a long-standing reputation and _shares in our company._ It pays to _be nice_ -"

“That’s fucking stupid.”

“That’s fucking _politics._ ”

* * *

"You're kidding-"

"I swear to god I'm not. Shit was wild. This motherfucker just answers the fuckin' conference call like _yo bitches, I'm in Cabo, whassup-_ "

"Oh good god, how the fuck did he not get fired-"

"Anonymous sources claim he played up on how _upsetting his divorce was, a moment of madness_ -"

"I don't necessarily think Peggy should be telling you-"

" _I_ don't necessarily think you understand the fucking meaning of _anonymous_ -"

* * *

"Well _that's_ utter bullshit-"

"Christ Hamilton, and I thought you couldn't get any more _irrational-_ "

"Me? You're fucking insane-"

"He _is-_ "

"No fucking way _Batman_ is better than _Superman_ -"

"Of course _you'd_ pick the dorky little journalist over the Caped Crusader-"

"The pen is mightier than the... _stupid retrofitted flying car._ Batman isn't even a proper superhero for fuck's sake, he's just _loaded-_ "

" _Exactly,_ he's relatable-"

"Oh yeah, _so_ relatable to the masses. _Hey kids, you too can be a superhero with only a trillion dollars and a questionable interpretation of the law-"_

* * *

"Not that I don't delight in finding fifty-thousand ways in which to tell you you're wrong," Hamilton says, after finishing his drink in four long gulps that have his throat bobbing under Thomas’s gaze. "But I still have shit to do-"

"Alexander, it's late. Nothing is that important. You know, that whole _half-dead_ thing might work for you, but it wouldn't hurt you to get some rest-"

"I'll rest _when_ I'm dead," Hamilton snorts, even as he blinks a little sleepily, and then stops abruptly as he processes the compliment Thomas has just given.

He opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

Thomas _would_ enjoy that, actually, Alexander's speechlessness, if he wasn't holding his own breath, a little excitement and a little warmth and a _lot_ of panic churning up his stomach as he deliberately doesn't salvage the moment with a quip, lets Hamilton sit with the ball in his hands and waits a second to see what he's going to do with it; whether he'll acknowledge it at all, and if he does, if he _does_ say _you think it works for me,_ wondering whether he should trust in what he knows - Hamilton's previous statements and actions and the way he'd just been scowling at Thomas half of dinner like he thinks he's some kind of archaic, sister-selling douchebag - and throw out something about how there _must be somebody out there who likes the Edward Scissorhands look, sure,_ or whether he'll _a_ _ctually_ let that little ball of _something_ convince him to say _yes, so much that I'm struggling to think of anything else lately, you're driving me mad-_

It doesn't matter. He doesn't get the option. Of course he doesn't. 

"-it's all important. I need to start working on a reasonable proposal for Fredericks' competitor," Hamilton frowns, continues, almost like there'd never been a pause except for how he's speaking a little more slowly, a little more carefully, and directly to the tabletop. "-and I'm halfway through an article for _The Post_ -"

"None of that _needs_ doing _right now_ , though," Thomas points out, soft tone to match.

"Not in the strictest sense. But I _want_ it done-"

"Christ, why can't you just fucking _stop_ for a second?"

It’s something he’s never understood; Hamilton’s constant _urgency._ Alexander shrugs helplessly.

"Because I just want things _done,_ alright? There aren't enough hours in the damn day already. And like- sometimes I think if I die tomorrow, I'm gonna fuckin' want this shit done, you know?" he declares, with enough finality and a such ridiculous little nod that it's clear he thinks he's made his point perfectly, instead of making absolutely no fucking sense at all. Instead of pulling the bottom out of Thomas's stomach-

"Excuse me, what the fuck now?" Thomas says, suddenly cold all over, looks him over like he's going to see something other than Hamilton; hair neat but coming loose, eyes serious but tired and his mouth pursed like he's annoyed at Thomas's bewilderment. "You're not- you're not _dying-_ "

"Fuck no," Alexander says, and something tight and painful in Thomas's gut releases abruptly before he'd noticed it had even been there, even as Hamilton rolls his eyes like that _wasn't_ what he'd just implied. "Obviously not. But I _could-_ "

"Jesus, you're not going to _die-_ " Thomas kind of wants to hit him. Kind of wants to kiss him.

“No, I _know_ , but I _could,_ ” he insists again, like _Thomas_ is the one making no sense, face tight but earnest, wiggling back into his seat for a second where he’d been moving to leave a moment before, can't help digging in to his foxhole to see his argument out. “It's the fucking principle, right? Shit happens. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. I could slip in the shower and bash my own brains in. I could trip down the fucking stairs, for Christ' sake, and _then_ which will I give more of a fuck about? The fact that I had an extra few hours sleep or the fact that my goddamn article never got finished? Spoiler alert, it's _not the sleep_."

He pauses, and Thomas’s chagrin must be evident on his face because the sigh he gives is almost a growl of frustration before he waves a hand in the air emphatically like he can _will_ his point into existence and blurts; “When my mom died, she just went, right? She was sick; average fucking stomach flu, _whatever._ Add a freak complication, unknown preexisting condition and _bam_. Out of fucking nowhere.”

Thomas feels like he hurts somewhere. Somewhere inbetween the way Hamilton's face has gone a little blank and the way he’s switched to short, sharp, choppy sentences and even as he speaks he realizes it’s probably not going to be appreciated but he does anyway; “I’m sorry-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hamilton says, though the rebuttal doesn’t sting as much as ache, dull and sad and he’s not sure which one of them that feeling is even for. “That’s not the fucking _point,_ Jesus, I didn’t _ask_ for your fucking- Look, what I mean is, you think she thought it was coming? That she did everything she wanted to do? _Anything she wanted to?_ Fuck no. There’s probably only what, _three_ people left on the entire goddamn planet that even remember she e _xisted,_ and I’m being fucking generous there. She’s just gone. Forgotten. Like she never was. There’s just nothing left of her.”

He looks at Thomas then, eyes dark and serious and entirely set, and Thomas can see in them what he’s going to say, because it pours off of him, the determination and obstinance of it, but his breath still catches when he does. “That’s not going to happen to me. I _could_ get hit by a fuckin’ bus tomorrow, and if I do, I want as much done, as much of _me_ out there as possible. Who gives a fuck about a few hours of _s_ _leep,_ really?"

“But then I think-” Thomas murmurs, low and steady, a contrast to his pulse. “-I think you _can_ sleep. You're all good. No one's forgetting you.”

He hasn’t said it outright, but there’s no way that’s not what he’s thinking; what keeps him up at night, what keeps him tired and pale and too-bony, because he flinches when Thomas says it, entirely honestly, blinks and skitters his gaze away looking confused and lost, like he’s not sure how the fuck he ended up where he is, and it’s enough to tell Thomas that what he’s just heard was something Alexander hadn’t intended on sharing. The way he flushes and moves his hands to under the table like he’s hiding them and pulls his whole bottom lip between his teeth makes him look oddly young and uncomfortable and it’s then, as he mumbles _I’ll be sure to take your stellar opinion under advisement_ with a noticeable lack of heat that Thomas registers that he’s probably about to make a run for it, _sex, deflection_ and _escape_ his flight-or-fight, and it’s the easiest to opt for-

“I think you’re looking at it all wrong though,” Thomas blurts, can’t help it as Hamilton slides out of the booth, because he _is._

“Luckily I don’t give a shit what you think,” he grumbles, except Thomas _knows_ him, and even despite the raw-nerve edge of the subject material, he just can’t resist hearing a counterargument, if only to be able to cuss Thomas out for how wrong _he_ is, and so Thomas is filled with a small, tingling satisfaction, if only for being right, for _predicting_ him, when he swings back around for a moment, glaring. “Oh fucking _fine_ then, please do deign to condescend to me how I _should_ be interpreting the lack of achievement of my own dead mother.”

"There's not nothing left of her," Thomas says carefully, watches the curve of Hamilton's flushed, uncomfortable ear. "There's you. Way I see it, you should actually be taking care of yourself as well as you can for as long as you can. You burn yourself out into an early grave, _then_ there’s nothing left of her. It's on you to preserve that."

" _Wow,_ " Hamilton scoffs flatly. "You get that out of a fucking hallmark card or some shit? Maybe stick to what you're good at, huh?"

Thomas shrugs, tries to regret speaking but can't, even though Hamilton's probably right. Thomas really has no right to comment but he sort of thinks working through grief surrounded by people who love you brings a certain understanding, a responsibility to those people to take care of yourself, thinks not having that might have robbed Hamilton of that perspective, however unappreciative he seems to be to have heard it. 

He lets it go, though, says _well you know where I am for that, at least_ and only half-means to suggest he revisit Thomas's room for _that_ , the other half of his implication firmly set in an offer to counteract the tight, hard line he's molded his jaw into or the uneasy fluttering of his fingers as he pulls out a few bills and leaves; an offer to smooth out the furrowed lines in his face, if Hamilton wants that. 

Although he lays awake later, staring at bland, hotel ceiling and telling himself that he isn't waiting, Thomas isn't surprised that he clearly doesn't.

* * *

_[Lucas] -_ This is the worst  
 _[Ben] -_ I know  
 _[Ben] -_ I thought I wanted them to stop  
 _[Ben] -_ HOW is this WORSE  
 _[Ben] -_ What is he DOING  
 _[Lucas] -_ He's not even all that busy  
 _[Lucas] -_ He's just hiding in there and glaring a lot  
 _[Ben] -_ He needs to come himself next time  
 _[Ben] -_ I genuinely think Mr Jefferson might cry if you deliver one more thing  
 _[Ben] -_ We need to fix it, I feel bad  
 _[Lucas] -_ Well *I* feel like I like my job  
 _[Lucas] -_ Yesterday he told someone he hoped they choked to death on the amount of shit they were talking  
 _[Lucas] -_ Theresa was crying in the middle of the hallway this morning because he called her a mouthbreathing fuckwit  
 _[Lucas] -_ I am telling you now, we do NOT interfere

* * *

“Please tell me this weekend is finally the one,” Thomas hisses across the table at his friend once Dolley’s in the bathroom, because if James is going to go out of town and leave him to go back upstate to attend Angelica’s engagement party this weekend by himself, there’d better be a damn good reason, and _visiting Dolley’s family_ is not nearly good enough. James shakes his head.

“No, no, I don’t think so,” he says, sitting back in his chair and frowning when Thomas throws his arms up with a _why the hell not._ “-it just doesn’t _feel_ right. I want it to be _right_ for her.”

“Jem at this point I think you could slap it down in front of her at breakfast one morning with a _here you go_ and she’d still be fucking thrilled,” Thomas huffs, and his tone is probably a little too tense, a little too sharp for the admittedly reasonably positive subject because it catches James’ attention immediately.

“Alright what’s wrong? Why are you fixated on this?” he frowns, patting at his mouth with a napkin. Thomas grimaces, because he’s not sure how to explain that there’s some crazy little part of him that needs _something_ to go right for _somebody_. If James can successfully propose to Dolley and start walking toward the sunset like the end of one of the shittiest Hallmark movies, then _maybe-_

“Nothing,” he says instead of _if you get engaged, then maybe I have at least some, minimal, distant chance with my former-arch-nemesis._

Because that sounds fucking _insane._

“Bull. Something’s bothering you,” James insists, leaning forward and pinning Thomas with a serious look that he fights to meet without flinching.

“No, it isn’t.” _Yes it is._

James ignores him. “It’s Hamilton, isn’t it?”

“No.” _Yes._

“What in the hell has he done now? You can’t have had another fight? I thought he’d been delightfully _quiet_ since the conference, actually-”

Thomas grits his teeth. Hamilton _has_ been quiet since the conference last week, or at least as _quiet_ as Hamilton gets. With everyone else.

With Thomas, he’s been _silent._

If he’d thought that maybe, _maybe_ Hamilton had been trying to dodge him that second morning of the conference, or that he'd looked like he'd regretted dinner, it’s been more than confirmed in Alexander’s conspicuous absence from Thomas’s domain for the last almost-week. He’s seen practically nothing of the other man; any documents are being delivered via Lucas, their one-on-one meetings are being diluted down to back-and-forth emails seemingly wherever the fuck Hamilton can manage to do so, and he seems to be miraculously _out of office_ ninety percent of the time Thomas tries to go and physically lay eyes on him.

He’s quite simply avoiding Thomas like his fucking life depends on it, and Thomas has no clue why.

That sinking, sick feeling, the notion that he’d fucked something up that had come that following morning at the too-quick flow of Hamilton’s inane chatter has been a constant presence in the base of his stomach, heavy and obtrusive and guilt-inducing and _confusing._

He doesn’t understand quite where he’s fucked up so badly, whether it was the sex or the dinner, but he clearly _has,_ must have done _something_ because Alexander’s spent the majority of the last four and a half months sucking him off at least twice a week; more often in all honesty, because the guy’s a stress machine that needs defusing _all the fucking time,_ and yet on the singular occasion Thomas had managed to catch him in his office to return a report and ask about a budget meeting he’d deliberately averted his eyes the entire time, and when Thomas had said _you seem stressed_ with an undertone of _do you want to,_ Hamilton had snapped _well I’m not_ so fucking fast and so fucking sharply there had been absolutely no question that he’d been answering both the said and the unsaid with a resounding negative.

It's depressingly unfunny in comparison how little a single _no_ would have bothered him back when they'd just started this thing, how he'd probably have shrugged a _fine then_ and maybe come back another day and got Hamilton up against a wall and gone for it because the guy _l_ _iked_ that, and he supposes he could do that now except Thomas can read a fucking room and something's shifted, something's _not right_ and he feels like he needs some sign, a go-ahead, _something._ He needs _something_ before he feels like he can go there again and he's not getting it. 

Also he really doesn't think he'll be able to handle himself all that well if he _does_ try that and Hamilton tells him _no,_ again. Because if he says _no_ , and he _keeps saying no_ -

Then there's nothing.

Then Thomas will have to consider the nauseating possibility that Hamilton’s _done_ with their thing and is ghosting him as completely as he possibly can considering they still have to work on the same goddamn floor. 

The thought hurts more than he thought it would considering it’s inevitability, and he blames that stupid little ball of _hope_ for ever convincing him it might not be. 

“No we haven’t fought,” Thomas grits out. “I’ve barely even fucking _spoken_ to him since last week, so-”

“So _that’s_ the problem-”

“For god’s sake, _no,_ ” he snaps, lying through his teeth because it _is,_ snaps hard enough that Dolley visibly flinches as she sits back down and reaches for her glass and he instantly feels like even more of an asshole.

“Don’t mind Thomas, love,” James says, glaring over his finished dessert at him. “He’s grumpy because it’s been almost a week since he last spoke to somebody he _doesn’t like._ ”

“Kindly shut up,” Thomas retorts, and hesitates before deciding against correcting him, against saying _actually, about that._ He’s starting to think he _needs_ James’ calming words of wisdom, but maybe not _right_ now, because he’s at dinner with his best friend and his girlfriend and he’s already being the biggest, most irritable, third-wheeliest person to ever have lived. He really doesn’t need to start whining about Hamilton over tiramisu.

“I’m…so sorry to hear that?” Dolley offers, bemused but genuine and why, why, _why_ couldn’t Thomas have gone ass-over-teakettle for someone _normal_ like her; nice and guileless and an open fucking book; the sincerity of her confused consolation written across her face, instead of a completely fucking baffling and nonsensical little shitbag that seems to have decided Thomas has the fucking plague for _no good goddamn reason-_

“Thank you, Dolley, I appreciate that,” he says instead of exploding in exasperation, because he _does,_ and because she’s lovely, and whatever James is waiting for is ridiculous. _One_ of them should at least be happy, and so when she’s turned halfway round in her seat signalling the waiter Thomas leans over to James, voice pitched low. “I swear to god, Jem, if you don’t do something soon you’ll regret it.”

James sighs, deep and long and fixes him a flat look. “I love you Thomas, I do, but sometimes I have to wonder if you actually hear yourself speak at all.”

Dolley turns around, James pulls out his wallet, and Thomas doesn’t even try to pretend to himself that he doesn’t understand. 

* * *

“What?” Hamilton says politely. Too politely. “Why are you looking at me like that? I made the fucking changes didn’t I?”

“Did you? Or did you rearrange the wording to make it _look_ like you did, whilst still having it mean the exact same damn thing?”

Thomas wishes he was pissed, he does, but for one, he’d not really expected Hamilton to make the changes he’d requested in the first place, he’d only really insisted on them to prolong their last conversation an extra few minutes while they’d argued about it earlier, and for two, having Hamilton sprawled in the chair the other side of his desk, legs swung over the arm and kicking the air aimlessly while Thomas reads over the amendments is the most normal contact they’ve had this whole week, and so _pissed_ is nowhere to be found.

He’s pathetic, truly.

He wishes he cared more about that, too.

“ _Moi?_ Really, I’m offended-”

“Oh save it,” Thomas sighs, pulls out his pen to sign the damn thing. “Not like I expected you to actually change it in the first place.”

Hamilton sits up abruptly. Thomas resolutely doesn’t watch the flail of his legs as he tries to get them under himself again in his indignation. “Then why the fuck did you even ask for them?”

“You were being a dick,” Thomas shrugs, and this is fine. This is normal; Hamilton here, up in arms, glaring flatly at him.

“Oh fuck you. Do you know how long I spent editing this bastard?”

“Longer than it would have taken just to _make_ the damn changes, I dare say,” Thomas says dryly, and when Hamilton snorts in spite of himself, reluctant amusement bleeding through, it’s enough that Thomas pushes, just a little, because he’s been driving himself _mad;_ “-s’your own fault for acting like someone spat in your cornflakes all week. Something bothering you?”

He doesn't mean to be so blunt, hadn’t meant to actually _ask,_ had only meant to leave the implication that he’d noticed, but once it’s out there he can’t bring himself to regret it, because the more desperate part of him wants to _know._ He wants to know whether it’s him, whether the way he’s tearing himself up is warranted or not, whether he’d given himself away too much, obviously bared too much with the nervous, almost-pleading wobble he'd heard in his own voice when he'd said _stay_ or whether he’d accidentally stuck his fingers too firmly into Hamilton’s vulnerability on the topic of his mother or-

He wants to hear, more than is probably healthy, that it’s _not_ him; that something completely unrelated had come along and upset Alexander; Adams or Fredericks or something else entirely, wants to offer the opportunity up for Hamilton to rant about it to him like normal, pacing up and down his office and filling his sentences with ninety percent cussing, and Thomas won’t even try to _help,_ if that’s what’s hanging him up, he just wants to know-

But then Alexander flicks his eyes to the door; swung as wide and as open as he’d purposefully left it when he’d come in - _purposefully,_ because even before the sex they’d always shut the door to keep people from hearing them fighting, there’s no way it’s _accidental_ \- and Thomas is reminded of the deliberation of it, of the singularity of Hamilton’s avoidance. It’s _Thomas_ he’s been avoiding, _Thomas_ who can’t seem to get him alone, even now as he flashes a look at the door like he’s either acutely aware of the potential audience they might have and reminding himself of a need to censor his response, or like he’s reassuring himself that Thomas definitely can’t fucking jump him right now, and Thomas aches with the need to _know_ which it is, to know _what the hell is going on in his head-_

“Yeah, I just spent an entire day rewriting a proposal I didn’t fucking need to,” Hamilton grumbles, snatching the offending document from under Thomas’s nose. “-so thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome,” Thomas tells his retreating back, can’t find his venom or his sarcasm anywhere. “Anytime.”

* * *

Angelica is radiant; fitted, knee-length peach cocktail dress, bright eyes and beaming smile in place as she kisses him on both cheeks, folds her arm into his and ushers him through the throng of people so vast she can’t _possibly_ be related to all of them, chattering all the while, all bubbly, excited tone and polite sidestepping of everyone who tries to co-opt her on her mission to deliver him to people he actually knows.

Not that Thomas would have minded staying where he’d been; he’s never been bad with new people, and he’d been fine introducing himself to an associate of Philip Schuyler’s and conservatively sipping at the champagne a young man with a suit, a tray of flutes and a tight-but-polite expression had handed him, especially when the first thing he wants to do when he _does_ see somebody he knows is wipe the eyeroll right off of Laurens’ scoffing face, even as Gilbert smiles wide and claps Thomas on the shoulder in greeting.

He resolutely doesn’t scan the empty space around the three men in front of him, looking for someone conspicuously absent.

“He’s over at the bar with daddy,” Angelica hums into his ear without a hint of shame, and pats his cheek distractingly as she hugs him again in apology on her way to welcome a young woman who’s just arrived before he can pretend to be confused, or act like he’s _absolutely just grateful for the silence,_ or really do anything other than _definitely_ not look at the bar.

“Business talk at a party?” Thomas frowns, almost immediately failing and examining the side of Hamilton’s head in the distance over Angelica’s shoulder, leaned in and speaking earnestly with Schuyler, his own champagne glass waving alarmingly.

“Hardly, I’m sure. They could be discussing the hockey and Alex would still look that serious,” Angelica laughs. “Daddy’s not one for corporate business at the best of times. Most days I’m sure he’d much prefer I were a politician.”

“You _would_ be great,” Thomas agrees, because it's true, because the look she gives Laurens as she passes him has him at least outright ignoring Thomas instead of being an asshole, which is a minor improvement and marginally more tolerable, and because she makes sure to make her way to the front of the room via the bar and manages to effortlessly steal her father away and have Hamilton heading back toward his friends. Thomas feels absolutely no guilt about intercepting him on the way.

“Jesus, you look like Tim Burton dressed you,” Hamilton says by way of greeting, lips twitching, and he looks relaxed, more relaxed than Thomas has seen him since he’d been almost passed out on his chest, _in his bed,_ like whatever’s been up his ass the past week isn’t enough to distract from the happy, high-spiritedness of the evening and he looks-

Thomas is actually trying pretty hard _not_ to look at him, because he thinks once he goes there he’s not going to be able to _stop,_ because if he’d thought those fucking _jeans_ were bad that one time, the way his fingers twitched to peel them off of him it’s nothing compared to the way Thomas wants to touch _now._ He can almost _feel_ his week of pent up frustration and anxiety and unease melting away into a painful _want_ that he aches with in the face of a loose, half-quirked mouth and bright eyes and a bottle-green suit that fits like a fucking _glove,_ all taut, snug-fitting lines; far _far_ tighter than Thomas would dare to go with his bulk for fear of straining, bulging fabric but _fuck_ does it work on Hamilton’s lean wiriness.

Even with a single, cursory, controlled glance Thomas can’t help admire how the dangerously close fit accentuates his slim frame until it becomes beautifully, elegantly _delicate,_ one button holding his jacket so tightly closed that it almost gives the illusion of a gentle curve at his waist that Thomas really fucking wants to span with his hands; that and the bare space at his throat - _too bare, too pale and perfect where it should be bruised_ \- where he _should_ look disrespectful and too-casual without a tie at an occasion like this, but Alexander somehow _breathes_ casual and the contrast of the tight, smart suit with the ragged pull of his open collar is oddly dashing and rakish instead of impolite.

Thomas is unequivocally, entirely, _positively_ sure that he did not dress himself.

He is both glad, and utterly gutted that Hamilton does not wear shit like this every damn day.

“ _Rude._ You look-”

_Good-_

_Really good-_

_Like-_

_Like I want to be all over you-_

_Like nobody deserves to touch you-_

_Like I don't want anyone to see you-_

_Like I should be inside you right here so that everyone can see you-_

_Like that dream I had that one time-_

_Like you need my hands around your neck and your mouth around my-_

_Like you'd look even better messed up and covered in my-_

_Like-_

“…you look like a Disney princess with that hair,” he settles on in the end, gesturing at the intricate braid Hamilton’s been cowed into sporting, because he just can’t bring himself to lie about the rest, and regardless of the current easy smile he’s getting, he's pretty sure the honest _you look like walking temptation_ he wants to offer is a little fucking much.

"Fuck you,” Hamilton snorts, pulling on the end of the braid unconsciously. Thomas wants to tug it free before he wrecks it, because it really is quite cute. 

“Rather fuck you,” he murmurs, before glancing around to make sure that hadn't been broadcast party-wide, resolutely not thinking about how eager he is to jump on the segue while Hamilton seems in a good mood, how _desperate_ he is for the opportunity to re-secure that meager connection back where it ought to be. Hamilton inhales sharply, and blinks, mouth moving wordlessly for a second or two and _fuck, fuck it all,_ he really _is_ trying to cut Thomas off-

“Unlikely,” he says eventually, managing a half-smile and an apologetic shrug as Thomas tries to swallow down the thick, bitter-tasting pill as quickly as possible so that the sharp sting of _rejection_ isn’t evident on his face. “-got myself a Peggy-shaped babysitter. Apparently I have to be _present_ and _charming_ this evening.”

“Well that’s going to be tough,” Thomas retorts. “Angelica always was a smart one, I suppose-”

“I _resent_ that-”

“ _Shocker._ ”

“Fuck off, I can be _nice-_ ”

Thomas smiles in genuine amusement. “With the proper incentive, maybe.”

The fact that there is clearly no point in him thinking about _providing_ that incentive does not stop him from doing it.

“Why the fuck would I do it for free?” Hamilton says dryly, swallowing the last of his champagne and rolling his eyes. “Honestly, I’m not a fucking _idiot-_ ”

There’s a flurry of yellow at his side before Peggy careens right into Hamilton mid-sentence, eyes bright and excited if a little glazed, hissing _Alex, Alex-_

“Alex, _shit,_ there’s a woman working in the kitchen that looks _exactly_ like _Sofía Vergara-_ ” she says earnestly, shaking his shoulder a little in emphasis. “I need you to come in there and drink with me and talk really fucking loudly about how very, _very_ gay I am to see if she bites- oh, hey Thomas-”

“-bye Peggy,” Thomas replies as she bustles off again, and Hamilton laughs, open and warm and fond and entirely painful for how very _not for Thomas_ it is before he grins _duty calls_ and follows her, and while Thomas thinks Peggy is a queen among women, he’s really not certain she should be _anybody’s_ babysitter, let alone letting her mind _Hamilton,_ though when he voices his confusion over the choice to Angelica later, she laughs brightly. 

“There is no _babysitting_ Alex,” she grins conspiratorially. “There is only distraction. If he’s sinking shots with Peggy he’s not trying to impress my great-uncle with how much he knows about the history of international trade or the Coast Guard, _or_ wandering around worrying himself silly that he _should_ be.”

Distraction _does_ seem to be the order of the night where Alexander is concerned, and if Thomas had thought the evening after Thorne’s retirement party was unique in Laurens’s determination to keep Thomas from getting even a _moment_ of solo conversation with his friend, he’d have been dead wrong. It’d be almost comical, Thomas thinks, the effort Laurens goes to in order to monopolize Alexander’s time - keeping him bounced between working the room with himself and drinking with Peggy - if it wasn’t so goddamn infuriating, obnoxious and downright _shitty_ to have Hamilton yanked unceremoniously away every time he seems to gravitate back toward Thomas.

Thomas almost outright starts swinging - it’s only lingering respect for Angelica and the determination to not ruin her party that he doesn’t - when Laurens eventually drags Alexander out to the very closest corner of the dance floor they're all sitting by after a disagreement about the fucking waltz, of all things; _I can too_ and _bullshit, Jack I have never in my fucking life seen you do anything so coordinated_ and _fine, I’ll take that bet, get your scrawny ass up-_

It’s not until he catches Mulligan’s muttered, obviously private _quel est le sien putain de problème ce soir_ when he thinks Thomas is occupied and Gilbert’s answering, caustic _il n'a pas l'habitude d'avoir à partager_ that he even considers that Laurens’ actions aren’t his norm.

It’s been a while since he’d been in Paris and he’s admittedly more than a little rusty with his French, but he can at least gather the sentiment behind the words and it’s somewhere between that vague understanding and his own burning, bubbling jealousy springing up unbidden at the sight of Laurens’s tanned hand spanning that enticing curve of Alexander’s waist that he abruptly realizes what Laurens’ fucking problem is; he’s _jealous._

It takes him a second to work through it, because he’s seen enough _want_ on enough faces to know that he hasn’t particularly picked it out on Laurens’, can’t picture him _coveting_ Hamilton, and yet when he reads back over the guy's actions through a possessive lens of _jealousy_ it rings undeniably true. He doesn't know what the hell Laurens thinks is going on between them to be jealous _of,_ considering that it's evident in the unusual ease that Alexander allows himself to be touched, allows another body so comfortably in his space that they've obviously fucked before, that he's not been rejected there, and with that, Thomas can suddenly, horribly picture _nothing else._

It’s that, that bitter, sour feeling of his own that has him butting in a few minutes later when they come back to the table sniping at each other, all _gonna have bruises on my fucking feet, you dick_ and _yeah well you’re hopeless_ and _I thought you said you could do it, you’re so full of shit_ and _that was entirely your fault, I’m perfectly capable-_

“Actually I’m pretty sure I remember hearing that you had to take three sessions with Miss Bernadette and _still_ failed out,” Thomas sneers at him, even as Gilbert treads heavily on his foot under the table, because he _had_ heard that, because Laurens has just had Hamilton’s hand squarely in his and the other all up his back, and because Thomas isn’t above pointing out his failures to make himself feel better about that fact. Sue him. 

Laurens snaps _nobody asked you_ at the same time that Hamilton scoffs; “Now _that_ I believe-”

“You’re gonna side with _him_ _?_ ” Outraged. Betrayed. Satisfying.

“I’m gonna side _against_ the asshole that just trod all over my fucking feet and then victim-blamed me for it-” Hamilton deadpans. 

“Oh and I bet _Jefferson_ could do better-”

“You know what? _I_ bet he _could_ -” Irritated. Eyerolling. Goading.

“Oh I _definitely_ could-”

“Excellent, shall we find out?” Gilbert declares loudly out of fucking nowhere-

“ _Fine,_ ” Alexander snaps, and then freezes. “Wait, wait, _wait,_ what?”

“Well, there is no need to argue about it is there?” Gilbert offers, far too fucking innocently, looking between Hamilton and Laurens' blank expressions. Mulligan very obviously looks heavenward. Thomas wonders if he’s praying for divine intervention. “That question is very easily solved, no? Just a simple little dance with Thomas and it is settled-” 

“I- I just-” Hamilton blinks, flushed and frozen until Gilbert adds lightly _is there a problem_ with enough of a confused undertone of _do you not wish to win this fight, how odd_ that his face sets stubborn and belligerent. “ _No,_ there isn’t.”

Thomas takes a rare leaf out of Hamilton’s book, even though he can feel his heartbeat in his fucking ears, thinks _to hell with it_ and drags him back out a few feet onto the floor before Hamilton has time to remember that he’s been acting like he’d rather catch a venereal disease than lay a hand on Thomas again, because he _can_ do better, his own competitiveness flaring. It doesn't matter how hopeless Laurens thinks Hamilton is on his feet, or how much Thomas is going to hate himself for this later - when he’s not going to be able to put aside the feeling of Alexander in his arms and _dancing_ \- none of that matters right now; it’s worth it, because the chance to _have_ that for a few minutes is just too appealing to ignore even if it’s just to make a damn point.

“For the love of god, can you please let this be the one time in your life that you’re _not_ determined to prove me wrong,” Thomas mutters under his breath, trying for levity, trying to calm himself - _them both_ \- and Hamilton makes a noise that’s part-laugh, part-distress, a little wild, but when Thomas looks down at him, he drops his own head and hides his face.

It’s not until he’s voluntarily folded himself against Thomas, fits himself into that space like he belongs there, or like _it_ belongs to _him_ \- so easily that Thomas doesn't want to process the fact that it sort of does, a giant _reserved_ sign on it like a front-row seat at a wedding - tense but willing, that he says _I’m not going to be very good at this,_ quiet and urgent and directly into Thomas’s chest, like if he admits to his shortcomings in muffled, almost-silence they might not actually exist.

It must only be his own panic over the situation that keeps him from hearing Thomas’s heart beating him senseless right under his face.

“ _I_ am,” Thomas counters, with only a minor wobble, confident at least in this, because he _is,_ and Alexander snorts in spite of himself. “So all you have to do is follow my lead.”

“Oh, is _that_ all?” Hamilton bites out, full of sarcasm, but he does slowly slide one hand into Thomas’s own, steady, outstretched palm and it feels like a minor victory in and of itself, a celebration in his chest and in his gut when he unwinds a little at Thomas’s grip on his waist. “-well alrighty then.”

“Stop being a shit,” Thomas says, tries to shift him but he’s resolutely still, planted unmoving where he stands. “It’s not the damn Olympics, we just want to show him up a bit, right? Just step, and then together. That’s all you need-”

“And how am I supposed to know _where_ to fucking step, _genius-_ ”

“That’s _my_ job,” Thomas huffs into his hair, and slowly nudges him a little more, leads him in a slow, careful, small loop. “I _know_ you can do this. Sink a douchebag’s stocks with a few tweets but you can’t manage one little dance? Gimme' a break...you just need the right partner.”

He feels more than hears Hamilton’s already stilted breath catch against his neck as he says _is that right?_ Thomas doesn't know if he's asking for confirmation of Thomas's own statement or genuinely just asking if he's doing it right, but the sensation of lips moving practically against his skin presses hot and heavy right down into his gut, either way. He’s close. He’s _so_ close and he smells like vanilla and coffee and sugar and a cologne that isn't his but that suits him all the same. He's too close. He's not close enough. He doesn’t need to be this close. Thomas isn’t going to want him to be any further away than this for the rest of the night.

He’s still tight, still tense, though, and Thomas hadn't been lying; he _knows_ Alexander can do this, knows his body can move instinctively with Thomas’s, can match him and move in time and respond to his cues with just a guiding hand here or a light pressure there, he just needs to _stop thinking so damn much-_

“That’s it, _just like that,_ ” Thomas murmurs, leans until his lips are too-close to a too-warm, too-red ear and presses his encouragement right into it, low and quiet and rough and so unmistakably reminiscent of another time, another place that he can’t help that the simmering heat low in his belly flares and burns bright. “Doin’ so _good,_ doll, you got it-”

If he’d needed any more sign that Hamilton isn’t avoiding him because he suddenly finds Thomas utterly repulsive he gets it in spades when the body in his arms shudders and melts into him; goes reflexively loose and pliant against his with a quiet high, helpless little moan, suddenly sways and moves a whole lot easier when Thomas nudges him round in another, larger loop, and another, and _another,_ smooth and trusting and _responsive_ to every approving, positive noise he makes and it’s _good._ It’s _so_ fucking good, every inch of him so fucking focused on _how_ good it is that he doesn’t even notice at first when the music eventually changes, only registers it when he instinctively alters tempo to match and the switch throws an unsuspecting Hamilton off, has him blinking and stepping back abruptly, Thomas's hands gripping tight and then slowly unclenching, trying to look like it's easy to do, like it doesn't almost physically hurt to let go.

"I'm gonna need another drink," Hamilton blurts, though it looks like he hadn't meant to, eyes dark and wide and bottom lip shiny-wet and red like he's been biting it this whole time, flushed from his cheeks right down his bare neck where his shirt is still ridiculously wide open, where Thomas desperately wants to-

Yeah, he's gonna need another drink, too.

* * *

_[Hamilton] -_ Jeffrsht  
 _[T.J] -_ Do you know what time it is?  
 _[Hamilton] -_ duh  
 _[Hamilton] -_ got a phnoe dont i  
 _[T.J] -_ You are absolutely not hitting me up right now  
 _[T.J] -_ You’re drunk, go to bed  
 _[Hamilton] -_ im not  
 _[Hamilton] -_ mean not dtf  
 _[Hamilton] -_ can’t  
 _[Hamilton] -_ lost my card  
 _[Hamilton] -_ dunno #  
 _[Hamilton] -_ pegs a hoe  
 _[T.J] -_ Jesus fucking Christ  
 _[T.J] -_ Are you downstairs?  
 _[Hamilton] -_ yea  
 _[Hamilton] -_ ill call laf soz  
 _[T.J] -_ No  
 _[T.J] -_ I’ll be down in a minute, just stay there

* * *

Thomas mutters vague curses the entire way down to the bar, keenly trying not to catch sight of himself in the mirrored elevator; sleepy-eyed, hair fucking everywhere, hastily slung-on jeans and sweatshirt-

Fucking _ridiculous._

What’s almost as annoying as having to go and collect his... _Hamilton_ from a hotel bar at three-forty two in the fucking morning is the fact that even as the noise of his phone vibrating had woken him, grumbling and disturbed, he knows damn well he'd absolutely have caved and welcomed the guy into his bed if that’s what he’d been looking for. Until he’d blinked awake enough to register how utterly trashed he was, that is.

He laments his own damn weakness, anyway.

The last time he’d seen Alexander he’d not even been _that_ drunk, albeit clearly well on his way, a sleepy Eliza curled comfortably between he and Laurens as the evening wound down and Thomas had stepped away to talk to a couple of friends of his mother’s that he’d spotted, until they’d bid him goodnight and he’d followed their example. In all honesty he’d had no desire to sit opposite Hamilton and watch him get more and more relaxed and loose and easy and just a torturous visual reminder of exactly what he wasn’t allowed to have tonight. 

Except here he is anyway, trudging through reception to the quiet bar, dim and dead; one worse-for-wear couple shoved into a booth at the very back of the room, a harried businessman clearly not operating on the right timezone near the door with a laptop, and Alexander propped at the bar, rambling on to the man behind it, wobbling precariously on his stool. 

Thomas catches _confusing as all fuck_ and _societal norms_ and for some unknown, godforsaken reason _optometrist_ as he approaches, reflexively lays a hand flat on his back to keep him from toppling as he leans again; he’s lost his jacket somewhere and the silk of the back of his waistcoat is skin-warm and soft, and he freezes for a split second under the touch, the bartender eyeing Thomas warily until glazed, red eyes peer up at him and blink, the tension under his palm automatically disolving as Hamilton sees who has their hands on him, and it makes the skin on Thomas’s neck prickle with warmth. 

There’s an empty martini glass in front of the stool next to Hamilton that Thomas drops into that tells him Alexander thankfully hasn’t been alone for very long. 

“Jefferson-" he frowns in confusion, like he _hasn’t_ just text Thomas basically begging for his help, but gestures to his wallet open on the bar in front of him. “Jefferson- _Thomas,_ I _lost_ m’fuckin key card-“

“You literally got it twelve hours ago,” Thomas says flatly, definitely doesn’t stop to think about how nice his mouth looks moving around Thomas’s name, how it sounds spoken all soft and a little plaintive like that, picks up his wallet instead just to check, because he’s not _entirely_ certain Hamilton’s not just too fucking wasted to see it right in front of his face. 

“There’s definitely a _four_ in it- _hey,_ I’m not _lying_ -" Hamilton protests, slurring a little, and he isn’t, it’s not there, even as he wobbles dangerously in his indignancy and throws out a hand to Thomas’s knee to steady himself. “I’m not a fucking- what the fuck are you- s’that _denim?_ ” He blinks at Thomas for so long, head cocked, that Thomas half thinks he’s just fallen asleep with his eyes open until he prods carefully at Thomas’s leg again. “Holy shit, you're a real life actual person. Wait, no m’I hallucinating? Are you wearing _jeans?_ I think-“

“Do you think you’re hallucinating me or specifically hallucinating my jeans?” Thomas wonders aloud. “Because I have to say, one of those is more weird than the other. Do you maybe want some water before you go anywhere? Sober up a little?”

Predictably, Alexander pulls a particularly unattractive face. He’s flushed and his sleeves are rolled haphazardly up to his elbows and Thomas absently laments the fraying, loose bits of his braid. It really had looked quite lovely. 

“Excuse you. _No._ If I- If I wanted to be sober, _Thomas,_ ” he says primly, around a hiccup that Thomas adamantly refuses to find adorable. “Then I would _not_ have gotten _drunk._ ”

The bartender snorts and passes Thomas a glass of water anyway.

“What happened to your babysitter?” Thomas asks him a few minutes later as he sips dutifully, having been fixed with a serious enough look that he’d accepted the glass with one hand while he waves the other in the direction of the lobby. 

“Had a better offer,” he shrugs, chuckling to himself a little before leaning in a little too close. “ _Sofía Vergara,_ Jefferson. Peggy has her- her priorities in th’right order-”

“You _would_ think so,” Thomas mutters, as Hamilton regards him blankly over the glass, can’t help the minor concern that blooms. “She as drunk as you?”

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “ _No._ Think all those assholes were tryin’ to get me- tryin’ to-” he trails off, blinking to himself and Thomas waits for him to finish but he doesn’t, just jumps a little, water sloshing when Thomas eventually taps a reminder against the glass. _Keep drinking._ “S’pose it’s for the best. Then- y’know ‘cause you’re all _Southern_ n’shit-”

Thomas rubs at his eyes. He can’t speak _Hamilton_ at the best of times, and this is not the fucking best of times, because he really can’t work out what the hell his home state is supposed to have to do with Hamilton being wasted, or why it would possibly be even remotely relevant, but before he can ask for clarification Hamilton scowls to himself and mumbles something like _good fuckin’ job, not interruptin’ Jack’n Bets n’still had to call you anyway, stupid fuckin' key card-_

“Wait, Laurens and _Eliza?_ ” Thomas frowns, tries to marry that information up with the picture in his mind, assumes drunk, singles-at-a-wedding situation until Hamilton pauses, looking mildly horrified and curses, _shit, shit, no, jus’ forget I said that, don’ tell anyone_ and promptly changes his mind. Interesting. 

“Okay, okay fine,” Thomas murmurs, tries to push him back from where he’s leaning earnestly into Thomas’s face, hand braced on his knee for leverage. He almost says _tell anyone what?_ but he doesn’t think Alexander’s really paying enough attention to catch his meaning and so he doesn’t. “Why the hell is that a secret?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know. Just is. _Make sure it doesn’t turn th’world upside down_ or some shit.” Hamilton grumbles, wrinkling his nose, and Thomas wonders if he’ll get any sense out of him if he asks for clarification, eyes the almost empty glass and decides to anyway.

“You disagree with that notion?”

“S’nice sentiment, I guess. I just-” he shrugs to himself, and looks down at his own hand on Thomas’s knee and then blinks blearily back up at him, finishes his water and sets it overly carefully down on the bar. “I don’t know shit, do I, so doesn’ matter, but- like, is it not _supposed_ to be upside down?... I fuckin'- I always sort of assumed that was the whole fuckin’ point. ‘therwise why the fuck d'people even _bother?_ ”

He waits for so long that Thomas realizes that he’s expecting a response, an answer that Thomas is absolutely, _definitely_ not qualified to give, not on any given day, let alone at four in the morning with an earnest, curious, _drunk_ Alexander Hamilton leaning far, far too close to his face.

At least he’s so easily distracted he doesn’t notice or care too much when Thomas doesn’t actually reply. In fact, he’s so very easily distracted that when Thomas hauls him carefully up and mutters _come on, let’s get you to bed_ he makes a noise that Thomas’s body at least, recognizes instantly. 

“Not _mine,_ your own. _A_ _nd on your own,_ ” he says, firm, even as Hamilton protests _but I lost my fuckin’ card._ “I know. We’re just gonna ask reception-”

It’s painfully easy, in the quiet, echoey lobby, Hamilton plastered securely, _torturously_ to his side and potentially snoring into his arm, to explain to the receptionist that _my friend here’s managed to lose his key card and conveniently forget his room number, any way you can check his ID here and issue him a new one for the night,_ with only a slight, muffled scoff - Thomas assumes at the claim of _my friend_ \- to indicate that Hamilton’s even still conscious, until Thomas has to nudge him with the arm around his waist and prompt him to _wake up you little gremlin, you need to show off your pretty face-_

“Here you are, mister Hamilton, room-” the receptionist smiles kindly, and then pauses, halfway through sliding Alexander’s ID and a new keycard across the desk, clearly looking over Thomas and assessing whether it’d be wiser for her to just announce Hamilton’s room number and allow Thomas to take him there or possibly calling security to escort him, but Hamilton’s already finished blinking owlishly at her, already curling into Thomas’s chest, into the proprietary arm slung around him holding him upright and so she nods. “-nine-seventy-two. Sleep well.”

“ _There’s a fucking four in it,_ ” Thomas grumbles, all-but dragging him into the elevator, the promise of being able to sleep soon clearly filtering through his bones until he slumps into Thomas against the wall. “ _Honestly._ You’re supposed to be good with numbers.”

He can’t think about how Hamilton’s folded against him, a painful tease and an agonizing reminder of his errant thought earlier, the one that’s not left him alone; how he’d stepped into that space like it was his, how it _had_ been, how he does it again now, unfair and confusing and unconsciously drawn on autopilot to Thomas’s warmth, fits himself there and hums sleepily as Thomas reaches out and hits the nine with shaking hands, tumbling stomach, pounding heart. 

“S’not my fault,” Hamilton complains in defense of himself over the noise of the elevator trundling upward. “You fuckin’ came’n mixed me all up, you’re _confusing-_ ”

Thomas can’t help his disbelieving snort. “ _I’m_ confusing? How the hell am _I_ the confusing one here?”

Hamilton shrugs, or at least that’s what Thomas thinks he does, though it could be a twitch or a minor seizure, it’s hard to tell with his entire body trying to melt into Thomas’s chest. He doesn’t even seem to notice when the elevator door opens and Thomas isn’t about to point it out to him, isn’t about to distract him from whatever he’s about to-

“You _are,_ ” Hamilton complains in a mumbled, muffled slur. “It is what it is, and everything makes sense until it _doesn’_ and s’only s’posed to be- s’just- and then you- you do the _touching_ and the- the callin’ me- _hey, wait-_ ”

He pushes away from Thomas with what looks like a fair amount of effort considering Thomas isn’t holding him; isn’t, can’t, won’t. Won’t want to let him go for a second time this evening, instead throws a hand out between the elevator doors and leaves it there to keep them open before the jolt of them accidentally moving off to another floor interrupts.

Hamilton tips his head back to frown up at Thomas, bleary and suspicious.

“Downstairs you-“ Alexander starts, voice garbled and slow, and then he blinks for a long second or two, like he’s trying to make sure he’s right before he continues. “We weren’t- but- you called me _pretty._ ”

He almost glares, accusatory, obviously would if he had the presence of mind to make his face do anything other than look mildly put out. Thomas resolutely doesn’t think about how the wrinkle in his upturned nose and his pouty bottom lip make him look _far_ too disgruntledly cute, and he definitely doesn’t give in and mold his other hand to the curve of his flushed, warm cheek and press his thumb to that lip, except that’s total bullshit because he definitely _does._

Thomas is well versed by now with Hamilton’s dislike for physical contact that isn’t getting him off, no matter that he’d been sure that the guy’s reluctance toward being touched had been abating, but that had been _before_ Hamilton had apparently decided he was _done,_ and so despite the way he’s currently being treated like a vertical mattress - just another service he apparently can’t say no to providing for this fucking guy - he’s mainly expecting to be shaken off, or have him grumble a complaint or even open his mouth for Thomas’s thumb to try to swing it toward something he’s more comfortable with, and so it takes him moment to realize Alexander has done none of these things, and is, in fact, slightly leaning in to his hand, eyelashes fluttering and eyes unfocused, somewhere around Thomas’s ear and-

It doesn’t really look like he dislikes it at all, actually. In fact, it looks entirely like-

Thomas stumbles into the realization like a punch to the gut, maybe a little higher up and not as violent, but no less impactful for how it takes his breath away.

It’s hard not to see it, when he trails his hand up into Hamilton’s loose braid, carefully buries his fingers into the mess and the quiet noise Alexander makes is so low and so pleased that it almost sounds like he’s purring, eyes closing and so obviously different to the high, helpless little sounds he makes when he’s aroused that Thomas is suddenly, completely sure that his issue with being touched like this is really, _really_ not that he _hates_ it, but the absolute opposite-

On the heels of that thought, and for the very first time with any shred of actual confidence, the utterly insane possibility occurs to Thomas that the radio silence has had absolutely nothing to do with him, and everything to do with _Hamilton,_ that he’s staying away not because he’s _done,_ but-

That he keeps leaving because-

Because Thomas's stupid little ball is _right._

And that-

Well. That possibility changes things. 

Entirely.

_Somehow._

“Well you are,” Thomas tells him roughly, can barely hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears, because he _is_ pretty, because it’s undeniable on his worst, most combative, irritable days when his clever face is alive with belligerence and spite, let alone when he’s flushed and soft and sleepy, glassy eyed and tilting into Thomas’s fingers in his hair like a cat angling for a head scritch, though he pauses when Thomas speaks and blinks again, brows knitting together and eyes downcast and faraway somewhere. 

He wavers in place a little like he’s thinking about stepping back and Thomas moves on instinct, pulls him back in and tucks Hamilton’s head under his own chin because he’s starting to think that Alexander is at his most honest when he’s not at risk of being forced into inescapable eye contact; hide his face away and he’s comfortable enough to say _please_ and _call me baby_ and _I’m not going to be very good at this_ and it’s not ideal but Thomas will take what he can fucking get in terms of honesty right now, alcohol or no, because there’s something fragile and delicate and hopeful bubbling up insistently and clamoring in his chest, that stupid, _beautiful_ little ball-

“You _are,_ ” he repeats, and Hamilton makes a grumbling, snuffling scoff into his neck. It sounds snotty and a little bit gross, actually, and shouldn’t make something pull taut inside him but it does, and he’s too busy breathing through that tightness that he almost misses the small, flat, _yeah, on m’knees_ that gets garbled into the fabric of his collar. 

“No, all the time,” Thomas disagrees quietly, almost as quietly as Hamilton had spoken earlier as they’d danced, as if volume somehow has any kind of logical correlation with truth, spurred on by the somewhat cowardly thought that he probably won’t remember this in the morning anyway. “-sweetheart, you been _pretty_ since the first day I saw you.”

Alexander makes a weird, hiccuping noise and down his forearm Thomas can feel the line of his spine trembling a little with how close Thomas is obviously riding that line, that one that he’s now starting to think is maybe, slowly, _miraculously_ shifting, _so_ fucking slowly, and so strictly on Hamilton's terms that Thomas can only seemingly skirt it and wait for him to move it a little more each time, but that’s okay, it’s okay, because it’s _something,_ and Thomas-

Thomas can work with _something._

So he pulls it in, salvages the moment and brings it back from the edge with an _even if you were an unreasonable, irrational little shit-_

“Condescendin’, self-important _douchebag,_ ” Hamilton slurs reflexively. “Like to’ve seen you fuckin’ _try_ n’throw me out a fuckin’ window-”

“ _You do know there’s a word for that, right?_ ” Thomas mock-quotes under his breath, mimics Alexander’s whiny, irritated tone, gets a _fuck you_ for his trouble, thinks he’s going to get a thump on the chest when Hamilton’s fist grips tight in his sweater but he doesn’t, gets Hamilton leaned away and peering up at him, all sweet and rumpled and lovely-

Until he says _if I don’t go to sleep in the next five minutes m’gonna hurl_ and ruins it completely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- quel est le sien putain de problème ce soir / what's his fucking problem tonight  
> \- il n'a pas l'habitude d'avoir à partager / he is not used to having to share  
> ~~~  
> Yo, yo YOU GUYS. Goddammit do I regret ever saying Thomas was easier to write. Even though this was all planned out, god was it PAINFUL and trying to navigate Thomas having a relatively-uncharacteristic yet hopefully entirely-understandable crisis of confidence whilst cresting PEAK hopeless, dramatic pining, all the while trying to show from an external perspective that Alex is just over there all over the fuckin place...yeah I’m sorry if that was as intense to read as it was to write, no matter how much I tried to break it up. 
> 
> Also it wasn’t until I was editing this shit into AO3 that I realized why it felt so fucking DENSE - absolutely zero goddamn sex. Man, I thrive on fluff and fucking so I’m not even sure how the hell I let this happen (I do, it’s Alex’s fault.)   
> ~~~  
> A few things that occurred to me as I read this back:  
> \- No, this is not anything like how businesses, stocks or shares work, but fuck it.  
> \- Yes, in Alex's warped little mind all he did was go over and butt his nose into their conversation for a few minutes. In actuality what he did was press all up on Thomas and basically try to explode Will's face with his brain. Subtlety thy name is _not_ Alexander Hamilton.  
> \- Yes, these oblivious motherfuckers be sitting playin footsie in a hotel restaurant during a busy business conference and thinkin that's normal. Yes, they will somehow still be surprised that every other fucker knew they were an item before they did.


	8. Chapter 8

Alex is dead. He’s sure of it. 

Well, no. He can’t be _dead,_ because if he were dead, he surely wouldn’t _hurt_ so fucking much, and so he’s probably still in the process of dying. Slowly. Painfully. 

There’s a throbbing, horribly loud, horribly _persistent_ pounding in his eardrums and in his temples and in his fucking _neck,_ and his mouth tastes like _ass-_

Actually, Alex has tasted his fair share of ass, and that’s an entirely unfair comparison; his mouth tastes far, _far_ worse than ass. His tongue is so dry it actually fucking hurts, his stomach is doing somersaults and he feels somehow sweaty and gross and overheated and yet also like he wants to wrap himself up in the warmest thing he can find, sleep for another fifty years and generally mope around feeling sorry for himself.

In conclusion; Alex is _definitely_ dying. 

Or possibly hungover.

Jury's out.

Except he _can’t_ do the whole curl-up-and-die-quietly thing, because that fucking _pounding_ won’t stop, echoing so damn loudly through his skull that he screws his eyes shut tight in case the pain is light-sensitive. It isn’t, and he has to eventually, finally, pathetically, _pitifully_ succumb to the evils of consciousness in order to search out some minor relief from the banging.

There’s a glass of water and a packet of Advil on the nightstand that he doesn’t remember putting there, but he blesses drunk-Alex’s unusual foresight with a passion, because even though the water initially stings his dry tongue it’s enough to make him feel the tiniest, smallest part human again, and it’s only after he’s managed to stumble half out of bed and make his throat work clumsily around the pills that he’s aware enough to realize that the racket inside his head is not _actually_ just _inside his head;_ that there’s a persistent, firm rapping on his hotel room door too-

"Oh my god,” he groans, eventually pulling the door open and immediately wincing at the too-bright hallway light compared to the dimness of the room behind him. “-jus’ _shut the fuck up,_ or better yet, _drop dea-_ what the fuck?”

He’s sort of expecting somebody he knows, primarily because surely only someone reasonably well acquainted with him would spend what he’s now realizing has been just shy of the last ten minutes knocking increasingly obnoxiously on his door to disturb his lonely, painful death, except he’s sort of anticipating John, or Peggy, or even Angelica if she’s feeling particularly cruel, because he’s a bit hazy on everything after midnight and so it’s probably _entirely_ warranted but-

He’s not expecting Jefferson. 

He’s definitely not expecting a smirking, far-too amused Jefferson, coffee cup in each hand, so fresh-faced and bright-eyed that it almost feels like he’s decided to look all awake and overly perky just for the express purpose of reminding Alex that his entire person feels like it’s made up of two-day old spaghetti and some scrunched up newspaper. He wouldn’t even put it past the guy.

“Hello to you too, sunshine-”

“Fuck _off,_ ” Alex grumbles, croaky and snappish, considers slamming the door in his smug face, except he doesn’t think he can make his arm actually do that effectively right now. “-people tryin’ to fuckin’ _sleep-_ ”

“It’s lunchtime,” Jefferson corrects, fucking _grinning_ at him, and Alex sort of wants to hit him. And then maybe sit down. He _really_ wants to sit down. He’s a little faint. “It’s lunchtime and checkout is in half an hour.”

“It’s- uh, _what?_ ” Alex blinks, incredibly unintelligently, for sure, but he’s too foggy to give a fuck, or to care about how pathetic he must look as he succumbs to leaning against the doorframe a little for support, because his legs feel like mashed potatoes and he really doesn’t need _any_ of this shit right now. “I need- what are y- wait, are those _jeans?_ ”

Jefferson actually fucking _laughs_ at him, bright and ringing and loud enough that it actually hurts Alex’s ears, which, okay; _unfair,_ it must be entirely, _completely_ obvious that he’s feeling far, _far_ too fragile to be outright ridiculed right now, even if it is a fucking stupid thing for him to have said, because they clearly _are;_ long, strong, muscular legs clad in well-fitting denim that Alex can’t stop looking at because he hasn’t got the strength to actually lift his head properly to see the rest of him, _that’s all._ It’s purely the sheer shock factor of it that renders him a bit blank, a bit stupid, just a little thrown off by Jefferson dressing like a _human,_ like a real person that actually goes out and does things entirely separately in an informal setting, all casual and normal and _wearing jeans,_ even if he _is_ in a button-down and a fucking blazer instead of a t-shirt like anybody else, and Alex can’t quite- he just-

“You know, I’m starting to think I should wear them more often,” Jefferson muses, still grinning. “How’s your head?”

Alex tries to speak, but instead makes a completely confused noise that sounds a little like _uh_ again, and also a little like he’s about to start crying, which at least has the benefit of also accurately reflecting where he is on the scale of _pain_ right now. Jefferson, the _dick,_ laughs again, though it's at least slightly quieter this time. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says, and Alex just _gives up_ on him making any kind of sense, doesn’t even fucking care anymore, because his head hurts and everything is far, _far_ too bright, and it’s then that Jefferson’s face softens a little and he offers one of the takeout cups. “-here, coffee downstairs was atrocious so I went out for my own.”

“I- uh, thank you?” Alex squints at his face, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s after, skeptical and suspicious because he's not really able to make a connection between _that_ and Jefferson being stood here _in his fucking jeans,_ but he reaches for it anyway because he's just that desperate. It's not until, despite his misgivings, he has the cup cradled close and precious against his worn-in t-shirt that it abruptly occurs to him that Jefferson’s probably trying to butter him up, trying to sweeten something that Alex has now implicitly agreed to just by accepting and he winces as he realizes what that thing might be; “-you uh- want me to…”

In all honesty he doesn’t particularly want to; this may be quite possibly the very first occasion that he really _doesn’t_ want to suck Jefferson’s dick, or much else in that regard. But it’s out there, he’s taken the coffee and fucking said it, even if he _had_ meant it to come out as more of a question, an _is that why you’re here_ rather than an _offer_ because it’s the first logical assumption he can come to; Jefferson had suggested they fuck yesterday evening and Alex had vetoed, and now he’s probably come looking, deal-sweetener in hand, to see if that _no_ still stands or whether Alex is up for a quick one before they check out and he’s _not_ but he’s basically fucking _offered,_ and he panics a little because he’s not actually sure he’s even going to be _able_ to-

Jefferson’s face goes from completely blank, to surprised, to amused, to _frowning_ so quickly it makes Alex dizzy.

Or maybe he’s just dizzy anyway, he can’t really be sure.

“No thank you,” Jefferson says, brow still furrowed, raising an eyebrow, possibly slightly incredulously, and okay, now _Alex_ is confused, because if that’s not what he wants, then what the actual fuck. “No offense, but you look like you might throw up on the both of us and that’s really not my thing.”

“Offense taken,” Alex mumbles, because even despite the relief flooding him at not having to either follow through or make some excuse he’s embarrassed to realize that, however ridiculous it is, Jefferson telling him _no_ for the first time stings his ego a little, and so he glares. “I’d still look _great_ covered in puke, fuck you very much.”

“Of course you would,” Jefferson says, mouth curling up, though he misses the sharp sarcasm he must be aiming for by a clear mile and winds up sounding weirdly humoring, almost pleasantly agreeable instead, but before Alex can wrap his mind around anything witty to say to address it there are warm, steady, sure fingers ghosting along his cheek, and it’s such a familiar sensation now; his hair being brushed back and tucked carefully behind his ear, he’s so _used_ to the movement of it - albeit from a different angle to _being on his knees and choking_ \- that it not only doesn’t startle him, but also has his shoulders reflexively unwinding and the knots in his stomach unraveling, his body subconsciously recognizing a common precursor to stress relief and already acting accordingly, prompts a small, sighing, _humiliating_ noise from somewhere in his chest as he sways a little and he-

That-

Wh-

“You need to check out in half an hour, alright?” Jefferson reminds him again, quiet and low and smooth and really fucking _patronizingly_ actually, but Alex is too busy trying to make at least _something_ in his body work the way it’s supposed to with his hangover and his confusion and his _embarrassment_ trampling muddy footprints all over his thoughts, all too overwhelming to be able react appropriately, to be able to do anything _other_ than open and close his mouth a few times and watch Jefferson stroll off down the corridor like Alex isn’t still slumped against a hotel doorframe in his holey, worn pajamas with a coffee cup held tightly against his chest, still desperately attempting to blink some sense into the world.

What the _fuck._

* * *

_[Jack] -_ Get your lazy ass up  
 _[Jack] -_ We gotta go in 5  
 _[Jack] -_ Herc's bitching about paying another day of parking if we don't  
 _[Jack] -_ He says he'll leave you here  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Fuck you both, I am up  
 _[Jack] -_ Color me surprised  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Ye of little faith  
 _[A.Ham] -_ I've even showered  
 _[Jack] -_ Bullshit

* * *

It’s not until he’s curled into the backseat of the car on the way home - Laf’s oversized shades mercifully both dimming the too-bright midday sun and hiding that he’s awake so that nobody speaks to him - that Alex is really cognizant enough to stumble upon his message history and realizes with a dawning, gut-churning horror that not only had he obviously made an idiot of himself in front of Jefferson last night, but also that the guy had definitely come to fuck with Alex and laugh this morning purely for the sake of retribution.

And Alex hadn’t even been able to form actual _words_ in response. 

Fucking _fantastic._

It haunts him for the rest of the weekend and into the next week, actually, the threat of the unknown at first - until he realizes Jefferson has had his fun and thankfully isn’t going to bring it up - but moreso the implicit knowledge of his obvious humiliation, because if there’s one thing he hates more than sounding stupid, it’s _feeling_ stupid, and he _does;_ horribly so. He’s felt it far, _far_ too often lately, can't seem to shake that embarrassing sensation of his mind working slow and sluggish and inefficient, fighting him at every turn, body making decisions before it consults his brain, lulled into foolishness by touches he knows damn well are perfunctory but still have him doing stupid, _stupid_ shit like agreeing to have dinner with a guy he’d literally spent an entire day _trying to keep away from_ and who had obviously only wanted to satisfy his own morbid curiosity, and yet _okay,_ Alex had said, automatics and just like that, before he’d even registered speaking, like an _idiot._

And really, he should have known better, shouldn’t have given it up that easily; it was the very first fucking thing Washington had ever taught him, _don’t ever admit to anything you don’t absolutely have to,_ and it’s something he understands damn well by now; how to move through the world getting what he wants without making it obvious unless _that’s_ his aim, and yet he’d thrown that excellent advice down the fucking toilet. He’d sat there and pontificated like a ridiculous comic book villain and shrugged and hadn't thought twice about just handing off some of that information he keeps to himself - even something as small as the ability and the willingness to manipulate the system to his own benefit - one of those little things he knows that keeps him very good at _subtly_ getting what he wants just by virtue of his _not fucking talking about it,_ little things that he guards a hell of a lot more closely than his own body, because god knows they hold a hell of a lot more worth and power, just handed over for free because Jefferson had leaned in and looked earnest and said _please._

So yeah, Alex has already spent the entire last fucking week feeling _stupid,_ and worse because he hadn’t fucking stopped there, just carried right on running his mouth, somehow let the words _my mom_ fall out before he’d even really thought about it, before he’d even registered that Jefferson obviously hadn’t wanted to hear that, that he’d dragged Alex to dinner to find out how he’d screwed Fredericks and nothing more, hadn’t wanted his fucking life story pouring out between them like a knocked over salt-shaker spilling his shit across the table and prompting that weird, sympathetic look Alex always gets aimed at him, the one that had stopped him from talking about his mom in the first place. He hates that look, all pity and charity and forced softness and compassion because it’s nearly always bullshit, and he hates it even more because even though he knows that it still manages to fool him almost every damn time into thinking someone actually gives a fuck. 

It was that look on a cop’s face when he said to _just grab a few things for now kid,_ when he’d promised Alex could come back home later, that had conned him into being stunned further down the line when he _wasn’t_ allowed to. It was that look on the faces of strangers supposed to be an appropriate replacement for any kind of actual family that had tricked him into being surprised every fucking time they inevitably decided he wasn’t worth the effort. _That_ look, on _Jefferson-_

Well, Alex is already trying his absolutely damnedest to keep things straight in his head, to not get distracted by those nice words and post-sex touches. He hadn’t needed _that look_ throwing him off even more, because Jefferson is _Jefferson,_ and Alex is _Alex,_ and the situation is clear, and the last thing either of them need or want is him getting _confused_ about that.

He knows this, objectively, but knowing it still hadn’t stopped him from getting all jumbled up for a split second that one night, from confusing being comfortable and sated and warm with _wanting to stay,_ and knowing it hadn’t seemed to stop him from getting suckered in by _that fucking look_ into sitting longer than he’d wanted to, into saying more than he’d wanted to at dinner and leaving him feeling stupid and disconcerted and off-balance. Knowing it hadn’t stopped him from ignoring the idiocy of confusing that sparkly, electrified feeling of being pressed up against and moving in time with someone his body knows can dick him good with something _other-_

 _Knowing it_ hasn’t at all stopped him from slowly becoming _stupid._

He needs a few days to breathe, to distance himself and wrangle that confusion and embarrassment into submission, to keep his head down and remind himself of exactly what their arrangement _is,_ needs to give it enough time that neither have to mention that _dance_ or whatever the fuck might have happened afterward ever again, and he _tries,_ but for some reason Jefferson doesn’t seem to want to allow Alex that liberty anymore. Where he’d seemed happy to spend the last week _taking a fucking hint,_ in the week following Angelica’s party he’s _everywhere._

Alex can’t catch a fucking break and it's driving him mad.

No matter how many emails he sends deliberately in place of meetings Jefferson will inevitably show up in his office anyway, all breezy and innocent with this reason or that document, every damn time somehow managing to pick _exactly_ those times Lucas is away from his desk and unable to play guard dog, and _shuts the fucking door_ every damn time, lounges around in the chair across from Alex with his stupidly nice, stupidly long - thankfully suited and not _denimed_ \- legs all very-slightly spread like he’s maybe leaving space for Alex to shoulder his way inbetween them or his fingers tapping obnoxiously on Alex’s desk like a persistent, audible reminder of how they’re _not_ currently pulling at his hair, smiles bright and sharp-toothed and innocent like he doesn’t understand that Alex is trying to do them _both_ a favor here, despite how fucking _painfully_ aware he is of exactly how many days it's been since-

 _You want to fuck, you take the aftercare._ That’s Jefferson’s hardline and Alex knows it, and to be honest besides the initial disagreement and some reluctant grumbling, _more for the sake of it,_ he’s not particularly inclined to try and deliberately circumvent or mess with that deal anymore. Not now that he’s pretty sure it’s more for Jefferson’s benefit than his own, because that'd just be shitty of him. Alex really isn’t keen on the idea of anyone he fucks walking away from it feeling crappy about themselves if he can help it, however he feels about them on any other level beyond the physical. It doesn't seem fair for Jefferson to suffer, because however much he’d like to lay the blame solely on the man, it’s not really _Jefferson’s_ fault that Alex can't keep his shit together just because the guy wants to be vaguely _nice_ for a second or two after he's wrecked him.

That's all Alex. Being _stupid_.

Besides, even if he _could_ somehow worm his way out of the petting afterward without feeling guilty about it, he thinks he’d probably sound really fucking weird if he suddenly said _can you, like, not speak to me all nicely while you're choking me, please_ and so faced with the alternative; _exacerbating his own confusion,_ Alex’s best option, really, is to _not_ fuck the guy. 

Jefferson isn't making it easy, though.

Neither is anything else, because as the week goes on it seems that everything and everybody is conspiring against him, trying to push him to the very fucking limit, his jittery nerves pulling tighter and tauter the longer the week goes on and combining messily with the way a toy in his ass and his own fingers in his mouth just _aren’t doing it for him_ until he’s almost aching to crawl under Jefferson’s desk or turn up at his fucking apartment lubed up and ready to take the edge off of his stress and it's compounded and worsened and layered in a thick coating of shame over the fact that he doesn't even think it's anything he shouldn't be able to handle, _has definitely handled before,_ would _surely_ be able to handle if he didn't feel like everything _else_ was spiralling out of his grasp.

In the space since the conference Adams has been _particularly_ unpleasant; expressing his displeasure by finding the most convoluted of shit to object over until Alex has to re-write more than half of the financial clauses of the new investment contracts the man had managed to procure _so many times_ he legitimately pulls some of his hair out in an effort to calm and focus his mind. Burr’s being excessively salty with him over something Alex doesn’t have the time nor the effort to give a fuck about and so _he_ doesn’t want to be of any fucking use beyond the bare goddamn minimum required of him, prefers to sit across his desk or beside him at lunch with a shrewd eyebrow raised and hum noncommittally when Alex asks his opinion, like he’s just _itching_ to see Alex burn out trying to work through everything he’s refusing to help with, even though _that's_ never going to happen. Alex will hold it together purely out of _spite_ if he has to, and Jefferson-

Well, on Monday Washington offers an _it looks like mister Fredericks stocks are starting to recover_ with enough _put an end to this_ under it that Alex tries not to visibly wince as he mentally bumps the proposal to collaborate with the competitor right up his list, and he’s so busy trying to finish _that_ that he works right through a meeting with Angelica and Jefferson, but when the guy shows up to presumably chew him out for it he somehow, inexplicably, doesn't look all that mad and actually winds up staying to _review_ the thing for Alex instead in exchange for an extension on his latest budget request.

Though in actuality, when Alex can’t think properly for the heavy, smothering, pent-up _want_ pulling at his nerves the entire time, he doesn’t end up fucking helping _at all._

On Tuesday he turns up armed with two takeout cups while Alex is trying to figure out how to convince Wilkinson to present the damn proposal that Alex has written - because it will look better if he does, both because collaborations like that are not _exactly_ Alex’s job, and also because it’s bound to go over smoother with some of the board if it doesn’t look like _Alex_ is specifically pushing for something that’s not particularly anything to do with him - and is so fucking unhelpful that Alex winds up cussing him out until he throws his hands up and stalks away, growling, _though thankfully leaves the coffee._

On _Wednesday,_ when Alex comes back from yet another fruitless conversation with Burr, Jefferson’s loitering around his office door, Lucas shooting Alex a wide-eyed _I tried, I swear I did_ look and when he strolls into the room after Alex and pointedly shuts the door, proffering a report he wants to _talk_ about, Alex just _snaps._

(It's either that or sob at Jefferson to _leave him the fuck alone to try to avoid him in peace,_ but he finds he still has a _modicum_ of his dignity left.)

“Whatever the hell it is, _I don’t give a fuck._ Leave it here, shred it, throw it out the fucking window: _I don’t care._ For love of god the next time you think about coming down here for something that could _definitely have been an email,_ do me a favor and just fucking _don’t,_ would you-”

“What the f- hey, _hey,_ would you _calm down,_ ” Jefferson huffs, and Alex almost growls, because never in the history of _people being irritated_ has being _told_ to calm down ever fucking helped anyone actually _calm down._ He’s pacing, he realizes, pacing and flailing a little and he only does realize it because he’s suddenly _not_ anymore, firm grip encircling both his upper arms, jerking in place as he tries to continue moving, breathing heavy and frantic and shaking with his temper until Jefferson shakes him. “Look, _stop._ It’s really not _that_ important, alright-”

He looks a little earnest, a little frowny, brows knitting together and mouth turning down and he’s too _close,_ heat bleeding through Alex’s shirt from his hands and across his front where he’s tugged up against a firm chest. It makes him foggy and lightheaded, and he wants to pull against the grip as much as he wants to press into it, _melt_ into it, wants to feel the hard floor against his knees because it’s been a fucking _age_ and he’s overheating with the sudden tension pulling tight down his spine and in his gut at what he _could_ be doing right now instead of _yelling_. He almost gives in to it, because it’s right _there;_ relief and clarity and calm and _satisfaction_ within his grasp, except then Jefferson _squeezes_ his arms, possibly reinforcing, possibly about to let go, possibly _prompting_ him, Alex doesn’t know, exactly, but what he _does_ know is that it feels nice, weirdly nice, _too_ nice, not necessarily _hot_ or _exciting_ or _sexy_ but warm and reassuring and that’s enough to remind him that-

“I have to go,” he blurts, and when he tries to step back Jefferson slowly lets go, even as he says _you literally just got here,_ and _yeah,_ alright, he has a point, but if Alex _doesn’t_ he’s definitely going to end this encounter with more than just the taste of come on his tongue; stupidity and overwhelming confusion just as bitter and thick and he just _can’t,_ and so he shakes his head and scrambles for an easy escape. “I don’t have lunch, ‘ve only got this half hour to run out, so-”

It’s not even a lie, he hasn’t brought anything today, even if he had just sort of planned on having a coffee-based lunch and working through it, but if he has to sacrifice the time then he can live with that, and luckily it’s a good enough excuse because Jefferson nods and doesn't argue, hauls his office door open, except _then_ he says _fair enough, don’t mind if I tag along, do you_ and tacks on a clarifying _we can talk about this report on the way_ in the face of Alex’s blank, uncomprehending, stupefied stare, and oh, yeah, right, _obviously._

It’s the lesser of two idiotic choices, he thinks, resigns himself to saying _yeah alright_ and spending the next half hour bickering about budget margins stood in line for a sub, because at least out in public without the protection of a locked door, Alex feels a little less like he’s going to end up screwing himself over.

Today.

Even so, he still can’t shake the tightness in his chest or the weird, permanent, panicky tension that seems to have lodged itself in his throat, obtrusive and unmoving sometime over the past week, or the accompanying, terrifying notion that if he doesn’t get his shit together soon he’s going to wind up doing something really fucking stupid.

* * *

Two days later Alex still doesn’t have his shit together and he does, indeed, do something incredibly fucking stupid.

So, y’know. At least he’s _right._

* * *

It’s not even Alex’s fault, really, what happens Friday night.

It's _not._

It’s actually almost entirely _Jefferson’s,_ he’s sure of it, because when Washington asks to see him late in the afternoon and then spends half an hour recapping three things that could _definitely_ have been an email before he finally gets around to what Alex knows he’s _actually_ been called for, it turns out to be for him to casually remark that _Director Jefferson is proposing opening a discussion on raising our affiliate contract with Rochambeau by ten percent next quarter, I’d like you to figure out before then whether we can afford to consider it._

It’s an entirely reasonable, innocent request, except for how Alex can hear the implicit instruction underneath it; that his boss doesn’t want to hear that they _can_ afford it, technically.

Alex is, admittedly, a little concerned about the minutiae that would accompany the hike, the logistics of keeping them balanced if they _do_ bump that partnership up, but it is mostly _possible._ He’s _more_ nervous of the implication than anything else; Jefferson’s been keen on bringing his friends in France back into the fold for fucking ever, has yet to get anywhere with it, rebuffed and distracted and redirected and there’s no way this isn’t him trying another avenue to reach that goal, somehow. 

While Washington is willing to have their former overseas branch associated with them as an advertising partner, he’s never been keen on reforming an exact replica of King’s organization under his own name, has no interest in taking those international reins back and Alex knows _figure out whether we can afford it_ absolutely means _tell me we can’t, even if we can._

“Yessir, I can do that,” Alex says dutifully, _honestly,_ not necessarily answering the actual request, because he _can,_ even as something cloying sinks a little in the vicinity of his stomach for once at the notion of having to be the bad guy in this situation.

 _Stupid._ It’s stupid, really, and he knows it. He's being _stupid_ _,_ but there’s something about having to figure out how to spin that lie believably that has him feeling a little bit sick, that has him shuffling back to his own office distracted and morose and somehow even more tense, and when Jefferson knocks on his door way after the guy normally would have left - which shouldn't surprise him anymore after this past fucking _nightmare_ of a week, but does - that _something_ has Alex pausing a little too long before he shoos him away, has him giving Jefferson enough opportunity to sit carefully across from him and ask for a _favor_ that Alex doesn't immediately reject.

It's because he's so obviously excited, Alex thinks, that he doesn't even bother interrupting Jefferson as he speaks. It would just be plain _rude_ to kick him out while he's mid-explanation, _surely,_ quick and sharp and serious but bright-eyed enough to give it away as enthusiasm and not terseness; that he wants to propose their tech, _Redfield_ _tech_ , for some suddenly-available aeronautics contract, that he wants to work on it _quickly_ and _now_ and submit _as soon as possible,_ wants Alex's _help_ and Alex gives zero fucks about the field but he still can't help the flickering of excitement and enthusiasm that suddenly springs up unbidden, mirrored from Jefferson's face in his own gut, warring for dominance with a heavy fucking _guilt_ over something he hasn't even _done yet-_

“Okay, fine,” he says, mind still on that horrible feeling, before he even really registers it, surprises himself _and_ Jefferson judging by the way the guy’s eyebrows hit his hairline, and the way he smiles bright and pleased has Alex backtracking automatically. “-wait, what’s in it for me?”

“My appreciation and gratitude?” Jefferson grins, eyes amused like he already knows that’s not going to cut it, even though it kind of might have this once, if it wasn’t so clearly obvious that it would be duly noted and speculated upon if he says _yeah okay._ “Right. Fair enough. What do you want?”

“I want you to back off trying to raise Rochambeau’s affiliation,” Alex throws out immediately without thinking, wonders for a second whether he’s giving too much away just by asking, just by trying to head this off at the pass before he has to shit all over it, because he _doesn’t want to,_ but Jefferson snorts far-too-elegantly and says _no dice, try again_ and Alex doesn’t push it. He _tried,_ he tells himself. The rest is just business. “Fine, _fine._ Whatever. Then I want you to sign off on the proposal to work with Fredericks’ competitor when Wilkinson proposes it next week.”

“Uh, _yeah,_ alright. Sure,” Jefferson says, giving him the weirdest fucking look that Alex can’t at all interpret, but at least he’s _agreed_ and ticked himself off Alex’s internal list. At least that’s _one_ person he doesn’t have to worry about convincing on the day, though he’s not at all stupid enough to think Jefferson was ever going to be the main problem. It’s Adams he’s worrying about persuading to sign. 

But that’s a job for next week. For now; _airplanes,_ apparently.

Fine. He can do this. 

It’s five thirty on a Friday evening, hardly anybody’s fucking _here_ and Jefferson’s in his office, taking his jacket off, pulling his tie loose and sitting over there where he feels too far away and far too fucking _close_ at the same time, based purely on how Alex can smell his stupid, expensive cologne from where he is, just the _presence_ of it in his space enough to have him not-entirely-soft in his slacks, almost Pavlovian and twitching a little to rectify how strung out he suddenly feels after two weeks of nobody else's hand on his dick but his own-

But luckily for the both of them Jefferson is resolved and intent and earnest and clearly invested in actually _getting this bid done_ , and it’s enough that Alex can just about manage to think through his tension, put it out of his mind and get to work.

That’s what he does best, after all.

Forget about it. Focus on work.

He _can_ do this.

* * *

"Well there's your first mistake. As if you think I'm going to let you have four-hundred thousand over the first fucking quarter alone-"

"For god's sake, can we get ten minutes in before you start. We don't need them knowing how much of an unreasonably stingy bastard you are right off the bat."

"I prefer _frugal_ or _efficient-_ "

" _I_ prefer having enough money to conduct my projects-"

"-and you always do. You make it work, don't you?"

"Well if I _didn't_ half of our projects would be in the dust-"

"Exactly. You know if you weren't as good at your job as you are, Jefferson, I'd have to give you a whole lot more money. So really it's your own fucking fault."

"I- wait, _what_?"

* * *

"I’m not using that."

"Pull that stick out of your ass and listen. I’m telling you it’ll get you noticed."

"Yes, because it’s _stupid._ This is why you don't work in marketing."

"It’s _clever._ I worked _six_ terrible movie references into my law school application and guess who still graduated with honors and three job offers?"

"Aaron Burr?"

"Oh fuck you very much-"

* * *

_[Jack] -_ Friday night w/house?  
 _[Jack] -_ U wanna?  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Working late, sorry   
_[Jack] -_ How is that always the answer  
 _[A.Ham] -_ How are you almost 30 and still raving  
 _[Jack] -_ Mad skills  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Have fun

* * *

“All the great food in this city and of course _you_ want to buy horrendously overpriced trash on a random street corner,” Jefferson declares, loud enough and scathing enough that the hotdog vendor visibly glares at the back of his curly head. 

Alex cringes and elbows him in the side. 

“Shut _up,_ ” he mutters, and then throws in an extra ten bucks when he pays for his food because this guy is one of his regular stops on his late route home, scowls at Jefferson when they’re far enough away to not be heard. “-could you just _not_ be _...you._ I _like_ those dogs. If he spits in my sauce next time I’m gonna be really fucking pissed-"

“I seriously doubt you’d even be able to tell,” Jefferson says, nose wrinkling, eyeing his own hotdog dubiously, though he still bites into it, something Alex is feeling generous enough not to point out. He’s riding too high on the rush of a job well done, his anxiety on the backburner for the moment, safe out in public, coasting on the weird but not unpleasant sensation of their startling productivity when singularly focused on a shared goal. 

It’s an occurrence that he really should have foreseen considering the _blinding_ success of their activities between the sheets, _when they’re both in complete agreement as to the target objective,_ but he hadn’t, had been more than a little blindsided by how quickly they’d managed to pull together a contract-worthy bid; the only time they’d worked together in such concentration being months ago and searching for funds in a million different accounts and still so at odds that that particular night had ended in the early hours with Alex furious and kicking Jefferson the fuck out of his office, not at an almost-respectable nearly ten with Alex proclaiming them _done_ because _one,_ he was fucking _starving_ and _two,_ the more the time went on the less focus he had for something that was practically perfect already and so all the more energy to spend digging his fingers into his own thigh trying to stop himself crawling into Jefferson’s lap and begging to be put over his own desk, desperately reminding himself why that would be a _bad_ idea in the end-

“Nobody fucking asked you to get one,” he gripes, because they hadn’t, because _he’d_ planned to stop for food on his walk home but Jefferson coming along had very much not been a part of that plan. 

(Not much seems to be going according to plan, lately, in all honesty.)

Jefferson rolls his eyes. Alex swallows his food and doesn’t watch him lick mustard from his lip. 

“Maybe I wouldn’t have if I’d known you were just going to get movie theater garbage-”

“Bullshit,” Alex calls, because Jefferson hadn’t given a fuck where he was going when they’d left, just grabbed his coat as well, too keen to keep going over this fucking bid of his. “-and that’s the exact fucking point. These are great, s’like being _at_ the movies.”

“Do people even go to the movies anymore?” Jefferson scoffs. Alex scowls again, almost personally insulted. “I’m pretty sure that stops being a thing when you’re old enough to sit in a bar and drink like an adult.”

“I _like_ the movies,” Alex objects, though he’s got a mouthful of food so it comes out more like _uh lif th mmphies_ until he swallows and repeats himself, indignant, because he really _does,_ even if he’s not been in forever. He likes the way you’re almost locked in to _having_ to concentrate, lights down and enough judgement thrown at you if you do anything other than _watch_ that he’s basically _forced_ to pay attention instead of getting distracted the way he probably would at home. He likes the way it’s full of people there for all different reasons; awkward couples and people taking their kids for an hour’s peace and quiet, lonely folk wanting to be around other people and wannabe film critics and groups of bored teenagers. Countless varying motivations and backgrounds and yet all sitting through the exact same thing at the exact same time whether it’s complete dumpster-fire mess or award-winning; a ten-dollar unifying experience for the masses. 

(He likes the way it reminds him of his mom; for once doesn't picture her face _after,_ but actual, whole and real and happy and never having much spare cash but always somehow finding enough for the movies on his birthday because he loved it; hotdogs and fizzy drinks, pink and white marshmallows in a ziploc baggie smuggled in inside her worn leather handbag, all kind, warm smiles but mischievous eyes-)

“-arshmallows?” Jefferson says, Alex’s only indication that he’s dropped something he’d not really intended to, where he’d meant to stop after the intelligence of _unifying experience_ and yet somehow let those two words go again, but when he winces, glances up, cautious, tries to determine how much of _that look_ he’s getting, he’s _not._ Jefferson’s just listening, looks a little bemused maybe but smiling like he’s just paying attention to what Alex is actually saying instead of offering up any overwhelming fake sympathy and it makes him feel stupid in an entirely different way this time, like he’s somehow _not_ made a mistake by saying it.

“Always had marshmallows. I don’t like popcorn,” he says eventually, carefully leans into the invitation and shrugs, sleeve of his jacket rasping quietly up against Jefferson’s as he does so, and when the guy snorts _who doesn’t like popcorn, it’s the staple of inoffensive foods_ he nods, remembers to swallow the last bite of his food this time before answering. “That’s the _point._ It’s just fucking bland, there’s nothing _there._ Whichever you pick it’s not sweet _or_ salty enough. Every fucking year I’d try Jamie’s in case I was wrong and I _wasn’t._ it’s just _boring-_ ”

He pauses, punch to the gut and to the balls when Jefferson asks _Jamie?_ but he’s not really paying attention, not giving Alex too serious an interrogation, not looking at all actually, screwing up his hotdog tray and holding a hand out for Alex’s too, preoccupied tossing them both in a nearby trash can and asking casually enough that _my brother_ is said before Alex thinks too much about it.

“You have a brother? I didn’t know that,” Jefferson says over his shoulder, and even though it's bland, Alex winces. 

“Allegedly,” he mumbles, very quickly changing his mind now he's heard it out there in the world, because this is... _nice,_ walking home buzzing with the high of a productive evening, of making it an entire five hours without getting into an argument with Jefferson, or without even _wanting_ to, or without doing anything he’s going to regret or spend hours agonizing over; he’s actually relatively happy with how his evening has gone. 

He doesn’t want the contrast of talking about this, to go there, wants it pushed back into that black pit of _things he doesn’t think about_ that seems to be bubbling over increasingly frequently the more he shoves in there. It’s just another thing that’s _Jefferson’s_ fault; Alex’s confusion too unwieldy to fit in there properly and refusing to go remotely quietly and forcing all of the other stuff out with it until he can’t _help_ think about it; being eighteen and aged out and holding a scholarship and a grudge, stood at Jamie’s front door for the first time in years, his _own damn place,_ angry and hurt and _left alone_ and _c’mon Al get real, I’m schlepping pizza and I got a one-room studio for Christ sake, what would’ve been the point in coming to get you_ like his brother didn’t understand that Alex would have slept in the tub or on the fucking _floor_ just to have somebody who actually _wanted him around_ and he'd known they hadn't been _close_ but that had fucking _stung-_

He’s not sure what to do about it now though, has somehow talked himself into a corner that he can’t think quickly enough to get out of with the remnants of that hurt now clogging and stoppering his throat and unease clawing up his spine at the idea of having to dig further into the topic until Jefferson turns back around, takes a brief look at his face and just nudges him to keep walking, hand warm and guiding and low on his back like he has any fucking clue at all which direction Alex’s apartment is. He most likely doesn’t but it _is_ the right way, and he goes where he’s led just for something to do to avoid focusing too much on the automatic easing of his knots as he’s steered physically and metaphorically away from his discomfort.

“Fine, going to the movies is still a _thing._ I stand corrected,” Jefferson relents, takes mercy on him, kind and soft and quiet, chuckles when Alex manages to huff his own small, reflexive laugh and a _can I get that in writing_ that blessedly doesn’t come out sounding as wobbly as he feels. “Maybe if you worked less and did that more you wouldn’t be so stressed all the damn time. You know, if you wanted to-”

“I’m _not_ stressed,” Alex protests, _lies,_ whatever. He can’t think properly to argue, anyway. Jefferson pauses for a second and then laughs at him again, though it's a little strained this time. He’s still not moved his hand, though, branding and painfully noticeable even through two layers of fabric. It’s a problem. It’s the epitome of _the_ problem, actually, because Alex isn’t sure he _wants_ Jefferson to move it.

(That’s enough to _make_ Alex desperately want him to move it.)

He still doesn’t.

Alex doesn’t ask him to, either, even though he’s far too aware of the presence of the strong arm along his back, edgy and hypersensitive to even a fraction of the contact he’s been avoiding for days, the phantom feeling of hands gripping his biceps from two days ago and the ghost of fingers against his cheek from last weekend pressing in again, skin prickling and tingling on that warm spot on his back and at the nape of his neck and he resolutely doesn’t look to his right, keeps his eyes straight ahead, shoves shaking hands into his pockets even though they’re not cold and curls his fingers tight into the lining, so distracted that he barely avoids plowing into a harried mother and her two under-fives, only saved when Jefferson suddenly fists the back of his jacket and yanks him sideways out of the way, except _he_ doesn’t move further along, he’s just tugged Alex _closer_ up against his side and-

“As if you can talk; you work as much as I do,” Alex grumbles, hears his voice come out higher and reedier than he’d like but can’t do much about it, considers pushing away from the warmth now along his arm as well as his back so he can re-equilibrate but he doesn’t want to make it even _weirder_ and he doesn’t really _want_ to-

“I really don’t,” Jefferson snorts, and when Alex finally casts a skeptical, flat glance up - _too far up when he's this close, tips his head right back -_ he’s smiling; small but pleased, even though Alex has no fucking clue what at. “I might not go to the movies but I’m still capable of taking time to have _fun,_ unlike _some people._ ”

Alex would snort his own laugh, maybe give him the finger, except his traitorous brain treats him to vivid, technicolor, HD memories of Jefferson having _fun,_ bucking underneath him and all hungry hands and eyes and words, and so it dies a little in his mouth, the snort _and_ the comment he tries to make about pampered princesses and manicures and massages lost to his breath in his throat and a warm arm _still_ up against his back and _fuck you're killin' me here_ and-

There’s something else there he wants to say too, to scoff and point out the blatant contradiction in the fact that Jefferson’s wasted the last half hour of his life bickering about subpar street food with Alex instead of going and doing just that, but his chest suddenly goes tight and heavy, the cold-water-dousing reminder that this entire exchange is an extension of their work this evening, is Jefferson wanting to carry on discussing this bid he’s so keen on pursuing, decidedly _not_ wanting to hear Alex blather on about how much he _likes the fucking movies,_ of course it is. 

“And yet, this bid,” Alex says, gives him what he wants, at least, hoarse even though he swallows thickly beforehand, and Jefferson hums an acknowledgement. “What’s so special about aeronautics that this has your panties in such a bunch, then?”

"It's got a lot of potential," Jefferson shrugs, and when Alex frowns up, he doesn't look down properly, eyes fixed somewhere around the top of Alex’s head and that's-

"Bullshit," Alex calls again, because it is, because he'd seen it earlier, that Jefferson _wants_ this one, had _felt_ it himself in the palpable enthusiasm before they'd even started. "If you're going to come beg for my help, the least you could do is tell me why."

"I just like airplanes, alright?" Jefferson says eventually, a little helplessly, and when Alex scoffs aloud he ducks his head, almost _bashful;_ awkward and so genuine something pings sharply in Alex's gut and, _oh,_ he's _serious_.

"You just like airplanes," Alex repeats back to him, slowly, blinking, and he's not sure why that's so important but it is. Jefferson makes some kind of affirmative noise and shrugs again.

"Have since I was a kid," he offers. "I like them. I like _flying_. I like how complicated the entire thing is to understand. It's _interesting;_ the engineering that goes into flight and- well. It's entirely selfish, I know, but getting to put _our_ tech inside a whole new generation of planes is just... _really fucking cool,_ alright?"

He reverses a little, tries to back up his supposedly selfish, _personal_ desire with the up-and-coming future of the industry, _it does have a ton of potential, though_ and _plenty of money to be made,_ and if Alex didn’t know better, he’d swear there was a flush in the way he chews the inside of his mouth, in how he seemingly unconsciously grips tighter to the back of Alex’s jacket, traces of childlike excitement lighting up his handsome face even as he counteracts himself, and Alex had known _it has potential_ was bullshit, had expected a spark of satisfaction when he'd inevitably be proven right except it's more like a solar flare, just so painfully, charmingly _innocent_ and he doesn't know why that-

He _just likes airplanes-_

That-

Jefferson's still fucking going, backtracking like a pro, all _wouldn't put us at any risk, wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think-_ like Alex gives a single fuck about anything right now except the way he can’t really breathe, doesn’t know why, or how, or what the fuck his stomach is suddenly doing, or why his eyes _sting_ or why he sort of wants to throw himself into the warmth at his side at the admission and for a jarring second he’s not just Jefferson-the-colleague, the guy who rolls his eyes when Alex argues in meetings or thinks he’s better than Alex or calls him _unreasonable,_ he’s _Thomas Jefferson_ who knows how to waltz with a klutz and make it look _good_ and turns his nose up at street hotdogs and moisturises his hands during the fucking work day and wears ridiculous suits but _jeans_ on the weekends and drinks boring-ass soy-milk coffee and calls Alex _baby_ and _just likes airplanes_ and the band around his chest tightens until it _hurts,_ overwhelmingly too much and not-enough all at once-

It’s entirely autopilot he’s working on when he digs sharp fingers into Jefferson’s expensive pea coat and yanks him to a stop and down, nothing but high-pitched ringing in his ears at the firm press of lips under his, a noise that only gets louder the more he tries to expel all of that overwhelming _hurt_ via his mouth alone, fervent and shaking and _blazing_ until he has to stop, breathless and heaving and gulping great mouthfuls of air that are only fractionally made up of oxygen because he’s still only inches from Jefferson’s face, his inhales matching Jefferson’s exhales, dizzily synchronized for a second before Jefferson does what he does best; pulls him in impossibly closer and takes over, takes control, takes Alex’s mouth and covers it with his own, soft and hard at the same time, plush lips and nips of teeth and a soft noise that sends Alex lightheaded and wobbly, steadying grip around his waist and-

Someone barrels into his shoulder and cusses at them; _fucking watch it would you, assholes_ and Alex almost headbutts Jefferson in the nose his surprise, the ringing in his ears suddenly becoming _screaming,_ a shrill, shrieking _what did you do_ mingling with the cacophany of the bustle around them until he wrenches away, panting and frantic and face far, _far_ too hot.

“ _Fuck,_ sorry,” he blurts, at the stranger’s back, says it again to Jefferson who shakes his head and frowns even as his own chest is heaving and his lips are still visibly slick, parted as he says _you dont-_ and of course he’s fucking _frowning,_ of course he’s pissed, because Alex can’t keep his damn hands to himself, in the fucking street where anyone and everyone is watching, where Alex is not hard, not even close, hadn't even really been _considering_ that, where he can’t feasibly explain to either one of them that this was any kind of precursor to a fuck, _not anything of the fucking sort,_ anything other than him just _wanting to-_

Did he just-

He _kisse-_

Panic, rushing and blinding curls hot in his chest and in his throat and in the ringing _still_ in his damn ears, steals his breath and his sense and his clarity and forces him back one step and then another, even as Jefferson reaches, probably for some kind of _damage control,_ which, in all fairness is probably a fucking _great_ idea, clearly has the presence of mind for it because _he’s_ not overwhelmed and freaking out and this is just going to be even _more_ awkward on Monday morning if they don’t brush it away but Alex can’t think about that, can't hear _it’s fine, you must have forgotten where we were,_ can’t _smooth it over_ right now when he’s still frozen and shaking and blurry-eyed and doesn’t have it in him to acknowledge what he's jus-

But they’re less than two blocks from his apartment and so he doesn’t _have_ to, because he knows these streets, knows he can turn in the opposite direction and still be home in ten minutes. Less, because he runs, _literally;_ tries to match the movement of his feet with the thrumming, frantic pace of his heart and his hyperventilating in an effort to feel less out of step with his own body but it’s not _nearly_ enough because he has to stop when he gets there, staircase too-still and too-silent, really, for him to double over, hacking and painful but he does anyway, sparks and black spots dancing across his vision because he _can’t breathe._

He holds it in through sheer force of will alone, lungs protesting violently as he slams into the apartment, can hear Herc and Laf laughing in the living room though it sounds tinny amd weak and a thousand miles away and he just wants to get to his fucking room, put a pillow over his face and potentially pass the fuck out without anyone hearing, except when he barrels past John’s door it’s ajar and there’s a light on in the room beyond and _he's still home_ and the sheer, unadulterated appeal of not having to be left alone with his own thoughts for the rest of the night punches him so hard in the gut that he changes course and ducks in before he’s really thought it through. 

“ _Hey,_ I thou-” John’s smile and his words drop like a stone, concern growing between his eyes and in the set of his mouth at whatever Alex’s face looks like right now, and presumably the way he’s clearly not breathing right, one hand curled into a fist over his chest like he can _push_ it into working properly, too distracted to express his gratitude when John crosses the room and quickly _snaps_ the door closed behind Alex so they can’t be heard or joined. It’d be far from the first time either of their roommates have seen him in a _mess_ but he can’t think of much worse right now than being surrounded by _even more_ people watching him lose it. It’s bad enough that he’s willingly brought himself to John without the others coming running too, bad enough that he must look on the verge of passing out, because John says _do you want me to-_ but Alex shakes his head, slow and sluggish, because in all honesty he feels shitty enough that being hit in the face would just be a step too far right now, even if it _would_ help jolt him back into rhythm. 

Instead, he slides carefully down John’s door until he accidentally loses his held breath on his _thump_ to the floor, but mercifully in the enclosed, safe space, far enough away from his fuckup, his chest has lightened; his inhales choppy and huffy and weak and _burning_ but there, marginally productive and easier each time and he closes his eyes for a second to focus on them, on the painful pounding of his pulse in his forehead and on the way he can feel John flopping down opposite, his foot hard and grounding and pressing into the top of Alex’s own, probably on purpose, and Alex imagines him mirror-image, with his knees pulled into his chin, arms wrapped around them and watchful, all freckles and furrowed frowning until he eventually blinks and looks for himself.

He’s weirdly reassuringly comforted to see he’s right.

“What d’he do?” John asks, low and serious and jaw firm and Alex shakes his head again, because he doesn’t want to- it was _him_ who had-

_Fuck, he can't-_

“That invite still open?” he coughs out, John’s turn to blink because Alex hardly ever actually takes him up on his invites now, even if he does always ask, just to be polite and Alex waits, gut churning, for the judgement to fall, because John’s surely, undoubtedly known him long enough to see his desperate scrabbling escape for what it is, suddenly struck with the bleak irony that the last time he’d found himself diving away from an accidental kiss it had been very much _away_ from John, not _to_ him and he has a hysterical, twisted, _horrible_ notion to _laugh_ even though nothing is fucking _funny._

Whether he sees it or whether he doesn’t; whether it’s ignorance or mercy Alex doesn’t know, but John looks at him for a straight minute, nods to himself, set and verging on satisfied, and then holds out a hand to help him to his feet. 

“I’m leaving in twenty and you need a fucking shower.”

* * *

John has other friends.

This isn’t news to Alex; as much as he’s been Alex’s live-in partner-in-crime for almost the last ten years he does have other people he _hangs out with,_ as John calls it, less _friends_ and more regular acquaintances whom he gets off his face and parties with. Alex supposes it’s a necessity for him, even if a part of Alex gets childishly selfish at the thought. Herc and Laf might enjoy a night out at a club but if they’re going to party _hard_ it’s most likely going to be in a place that requires they wear a hell of a lot less clothing, and Alex has never really been a big fan of the rave scene. It doesn't help that he hasn’t strayed much further than weed since the very first time John had given him a pill with a smiley face on it and they'd genuinely thought it was giving him an aneurysm; his head had _pounded,_ he’d had weird-ass, even-more-irregular heart palpitations, his nose had bled, _a lot,_ John had _cried,_ and they’d both basically discovered that Alex was already far, _far_ too high strung to benefit from anything approaching uppers. 

Without augmentation, strobe lights and masses of flailing, hyperactive, sweaty bodies have never really been quite his thing, and he doesn’t actually think it’s really _John’s_ either; Alex thinks it’s probably more a leftover remnant of the very first thing he’d discovered that would horrify and scandalize his father, something that he clings to purely out of rebellion and spite rather than any actual pleasure, because _better-with-enhancement_ or not, the way he steels himself before he throws the pill back and dives into the throng is akin to a person jumping into a freezing cold pool, more _determined_ than _enjoying_ but then Alex isn’t normally here to see it, to know if that's what he looks like when he's _enjoying_ this, so what does he know. 

His thing or not, it’s exactly what Alex needs right now; the music is so loud he can’t string two coherent thoughts together, or think about much of anything at all, let alone the soft press of lips against his or the horror and panic persistently clawing at his throat no matter how far away he pushes it, and the press of people around him is so tight, they’re _so close_ that he doesn’t even have to worry all too much about moving, can just let the alcohol and the flashing lights blur his vision until he can’t focus on much of anything in _that_ regard either.

John’s other _friends_ are assholes; a weird, mismatched combination of spaced-out and coked-up, a mess of hippie ravers grouping together for a singular shared purpose, so clearly _not nearly good enough_ to be deserving of John’s time or his attention that it’s always turned Alex off from doing this more often, even if he _did_ have the time to spare - _which he doesn’t_ \- because he’s never possessed the patience to endure extended periods of time with people who irritate him. But they’re all reasonably indifferent enough to his presence, besides John appearing to ruffle his hair too-vigorously every so often, all happy to let him melt into the background like he’s not actually there which suits him fine. He doesn’t actually _want_ to be there, he just doesn’t want to be entirely alone either, doesn’t want to _engage_ but wants enough distraction that by the time he has to sober up _,_ he’s either going to have miraculously figured out how to, at best, navigate his own shitshow or at worst, change his name and quit his job, or, if he stays drunk for long enough it might actually have miraculously been so fucking long ago that he doesn’t _have_ to do either.

Unfortunately, _depressingly,_ it doesn’t last all that long really, his temporary, fleeting distraction, doesn't _work_ very well at all after a few hours; deafening music tripping the switch between mind-numbing and _painful_ suddenly and all at once, his head violently protesting the stress he’s put it through tonight already, oxygen deprivation and panic and alcohol-related dehydration and _so much fucking noise_ compounding in his brain until he feels like his ears must be bleeding for the throbbing _hurt,_ and he trips up the metal stairs and out before he’s really registered how much he needs _air._

It’s a complete fucking contradiction, he thinks, the inconspicuous door and soundproofing so efficient he almost hears his ears _pop_ in the ringing silence of the street, compared to the sizeable crowd hanging around on the otherwise deserted sidewalk, everything saying _we don’t want to be found_ except for the almost literal neon signpost of idiots laughing and smoking and cussing in the street. 

“Alright down there?” someone asks above where he’s bent over and breathing steady, hands braced on his knees, all half-interest and Boston twang and when he straightens the guy is tall and stocky and blonde with a little metal hoop in his eyebrow and has his arms folded and a hip cocked against the wall Alex is leaned up on, lightheaded and ears still ringing. An amused eyebrow lifts. “You look wiped. Need a boost?”

He casually touches his pocket in a way that tells Alex exactly what he’s hanging around pedaling, and although there’s no way he’s taking pills from some random dude outside of a goddamn warehouse, he’d be down for a cigarette, actually, if anyone out here has anything as fucking _mundane_ as that going for sale.

“I dunno, are you gonna charge me?” he says, leans back and breathes in deep, pats his own pockets sloppily to check for his phone and wallet and keys, just to be sure they're still there, and shrugs when the guy grins and says _depends what you want._ “Got a cigarette?”

“Shit, you can have that for free,” blonde probably-dealer snorts and promptly pulls a packet from the back of his jeans, holds a filtered end too-close to Alex’s face until he opens up for the weird sensation of somebody putting something unceremoniously in his mouth, slips one between his own lips and flicks a lighter to life between their faces, leans in tight to light them both at once, voice muffled around the filter gripped between his teeth. “Rough night, huh?”

Alex makes a noise somewhere between an acknowledging hum and a grunt and really doesn’t want to go further than that, _not now, not ever,_ shakes the sweaty hair out of his eyes and relies heavily on the wall behind him to keep him upright as he inhales deep and holds, once and then twice, waits for the short-lived head rush he always gets, the benefit of indulging in nicotine so infrequently. “Could say that. How’s tricks?”

“Fucking slow,” the guy grumbles, stepping in further and making an unimpressed noise like it’s a personal insult that nobody seems to need his product to have a good time and Alex tries not to roll his eyes. “Bunch’a nuns up in here. Wasting my fucking night-”

The door bangs open again; brief flash of pounding bass beyond before it’s back to quiet and Alex sees John’s sweaty, curly mop peering through the throng, visible around the dude's shoulder as he bitches, his best friend possibly a little more aware of Alex’s presence tonight than he’d given him credit for.

He can see when John steps into view, sees the line of his shoulders visibly relaxing even at a distance when their eyes meet, when Alex raises a lazy hand in greeting, half his cigarette between his fingers, sees John’s assessment and then the eventual eye roll and grin and the casual wave he’s seen a million times before, the one that simultaneously says _I’ll let you get on with it_ and _have a good night_ and see _you in the morning_ and it takes him a few seconds after that to clock the obvious implication; how _close_ blonde-dealer really is. Alex can suddenly feel his exhales, acrid smoke in his face and his hair, can feel his _skin,_ too-warm through two layers and mere inches of space, _feels_ it without looking when he turns to follow Alex’s gaze on John’s retreating back.

“S’my friend,” he mumbles slowly, still reeling, realization hitting him like a brick to the face and the confusion and uncertainty and discomfort that follows the thought; that he’s been horny and stressed and strung out for weeks now and hasn’t bothered even _considering-_

_How has he not-_

“Need to go back in?” the guy asks, and _now_ Alex sees it, the eyes on his face, on the curve of his mouth around the butt of the cigarette, the low, suggestive edge to the question, the arm braced squarely above his head, the curve of his body towards Alex's.

“No, I dont,” Alex says carefully, pulls a face at the thought, because he doesn’t need to, doesn't _want_ to, can’t stand the thought of putting his eardrums through that anymore, actually, and he's taken the hand he's offered before he can rethink it; dead set on nothing but how he _needs_ to make that constant panicked ringing in his ears finally _shut the fuck up._

He _needs_ to not _think._ He _needs_ to de-stress. He doesn’t _need_ anybody specific to do any of those things. _He doesn’t._

He-

He _doesn't._

He just wants to-

Except it doesn’t go at all how he wants it to, how he _needs_ it to; tugged further down the street and into shadow, the cold brick wall still hard at his back, one too-sweaty, too-small hand up inside his shirt and curled around his ribs and one pressing hard against his shoulder, holding him down in a way he knows he _should_ like, knows he _does_ like, except his clammy skin feels like it’s itching with fear and unease instead of heat and pleasure and he just-

He just needs to give it a little bit longer.

A little bit more effort. 

That's all.

It’s _rust,_ he tells himself, that’s all it is. It _has_ to be; purely a by-product of the same person for a protracted amount of time tricking him into feeling like the tongue in his mouth isn’t moving right, doesn’t _taste_ right, all sickening smoke and acid tang that turns his stomach and makes him want to bite down instinctively in defense and there’s no stress relief or safety or _comfort_ there’s just nausea, but it’s fine, it's just been a while, because it’s nothing he hasn’t done before, nothing he hasn’t _enjoyed_ before, and it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. _H_ _e’s fine-_

He tips his head back against the brick, closes his eyes and focuses hard on the stiff breeze ruffling his hair and on forcing his body not to flinch at the open mouth moving down his neck, focuses on tightening his fingers in thin cotton instead of flattening them and pushing away and on not recoiling at the tight press of a strange body flush against his, focuses on swallowing down burning acid reflux that tastes like _bile_ at the feel of his pants being popped open, and _christ_ he’s going to _hurl_ and his skin is _crawling_ and his eyes are burning and thank _fuck_ he’s wearing his tightest jeans because there’s no fucking room to fit a single finger in there let alone his fucking _hand_ and so maybe he won’t realize that Alex isn’t pressing into it, isn’t panting in arousal, isn’t anything close to _hard_ and why, why _why isn’t-_

He’s not fine.

He’s wrong.

Something is _wrong_ with him-

“-take this somewhere else, hm?” gets said rough and low and into his ear after a second or two of unsuccessfully attempting to wriggle his hand inside Alex’s pants and the noise Alex makes is probably close enough to a whimper to sound like affirmation, like agreement. “Just gotta hand off my stuff-”

The shift in temperature when the guy pushes away and promises he’ll _be right back_ is as sobering as freezing water to the face; cold, bracing wind raising goosebumps and shivers along his arms and his neck and his head _throbs;_ an abrupt, overwhelming clarity all of a sudden in the face of fresh air and the sound of sirens in the distance and his legs tremble and his vision blurs and he suddenly doesn’t really understand how he got here, what the fuck he’s really doing around the corner from a dingy warehouse in the ass-end of Brooklyn, tense and edgy and drunk and uneasy and-

He _doesn’t want to._ He wants to _gag._ He wants to _shower._ He wants to go _home._ He wants _Je-_

He-

Shit, he wants to _cry._

He does cry a little bit, actually, humiliating and messy and gross, snuck quickly down the nearest alley and then another and _another_ until he’s far enough away and finally curled up in the back of an Uber, sniffling wetly into his knees and shaking and shuddering and fuming petulantly that if his goddamn driver is judging him then he can _go fuck himself,_ because Alex feels like he's coming so close to the end of his rope that he doesn't even have enough left to hang himself with, and he just- he can’t- he wants-

His driver turns up the radio. Alex hides his face in his hands and doesn't look up until he's home.

* * *

He’s not really surprised when he’s not left alone long; face down and hiding in his bed when someone heaves a sigh and sinks down next to him.

It's not even ten minutes after being caught trying to unsuccessfully sober up - _or drown himself_ \- with his head half under the kitchen faucet by Laf, on the hunt for a three-am glass of _warm milk_ to help him sleep because he might be turning thirty in two weeks time but in reality he's clearly fucking _eighty._ Alex had thought he’d wiped his face well enough after snivelling all the way home but he must have still been flushed or red-nosed or bloodshot-eyed because Laf had frowned _qu'est-ce qui ne va pas chéri?_ and not left well enough alone until Alex had had to resort to snapping and snarling in a desperate bid to get away before he gave into the urge to sit down right there on the tiled floor and finish his bawling properly until he felt better.

He finally finds he’s got no such defence at the heavy hand on his shoulder and the weight of the person at his side as they flop down beside him in the dark and murmur _hey, you’re alright, you're alright,_ because it’s clear it’s not Laf. 

It’s the fact that his loud friend has recognised and conceded that Alex is in no way able to deal with his own personal brand of being poked and prodded and needled but clearly not wanted him to be alone, and it’s the fact that Herc, despite being their resident sleep-ogre, somehow doesn’t sound at all pissed at being woken at stupid o’clock in the morning to crawl into bed with Alex still choking on his breath, doesn’t sound anything other than sleepy and concerned, steady and solid and reassuring that are the final straws that break him; guilt and pressure and _affection_ crack him open down the middle and have him curling into the arm around him and drunkenly coughing out everything he has. There’s no dam left as he spills tears and snot and confusion, _all of his confusion;_ Jefferson and their _arrangement_ and the _touching_ and this whole entire _shitshow_ of an evening, his giant _giant_ fuckup and _kissing in the fucking street_ and _John_ and _raves_ and the _dealer_ and Alex’s stupid, _stupid_ body that won’t work the way he needs it to, how it’s _broken-_

“Jesus, you really do love to hurt yourself sometimes, don’t you,” Hercules mutters into his hair, smooths a calming hand down his back, and Alex makes a wet, hysterical, half-pained noise against his shoulder. “Alex, _Alex,_ you’re not _broken,_ you idiot. It’s really not rocket science. So you’re into the guy, that’s _fine._ It’s nothing to-“

“I’m _not,_ ” Alex chokes out, reflexive and recoiling from the statement, except it tastes ashy and sour and _wrong_ on his tongue and _-_

Said aloud like that, matter-of-fact and blunt and just _there_ -

He’s _not-_

_Fuck._

Is he?

He-

Fuck.

Oh fuck.

_Oh fuck._

“Oh, fuck _,_ ” he mumbles blankly, voice strained. Herc snorts, and Alex sort of wonders how he can sound so damn _put together_ with the entire world being topsy turvy and tipped on it's head, spinning and whirling when Alex is _reeling_ but he doesn’t even sound surprised-

Hercules sighs, sounds a little bit more awake. “Alex, everybody knows, man. I am, quite literally, the opposite of surprised.”

“-wait, everybody?”

“To varying degrees, yeah,” Herc hums, though his voice is patient and kind and not as blunt as he delivers the blow, pats comfortingly at his arm.

“Oh fuck,” Alex repeats weakly, rolls over abruptly and stares in alarm in the direction of the ceiling, breathing coming even quicker and he can feel cooling, drying tear tracks on his face, rubs at them with his shaking hands-

“It’s _fine-_ ”

“Do you think _he_ knows?” He’s incredibly glad the lights are out, that his shame and horror and flush aren’t visible to anyone but himself.

Hercules pauses. “I mean, I don’t know. But you _did_ just kiss him in the street so-”

“Oh, _fuck._ ” Alex is starting to feel like a broken record. He’s also starting to feel increasingly dizzy. He doesn't think it's all alcohol-related.

“Alex, _chill._ You probably made his day-”

“ _No,_ ” Alex shakes his head, swallows, tangles fingers in his hair and pulls hard. “No, no, _no._ He’s not- he doesn’t-”

It’s too much to think about, still half-drunk and snivelly and tangled in his bedclothes with his head swimming and all of his internal organs sinking to somewhere in his stomach, because even if Alex _wanted_ Jefferson to-

Wait, _does_ he want that?

 _It doesn’t matter either way,_ Alex tells himself desperately, because that’s not what’s going on here, not the arrangement that they have, no matter what Alex _does_ or _doesn’t_ want and so it’s pointless to even examine that question, is only going to end in his own upset because he’s a _means to an end-_

“Wait, wait. Are you serious? Hang on, were we at the same engagement party?” There’s the sound of skin on skin, and Alex imagines Herc rubbing his face before he shifts, rolls to face him.

“Yeah, he told me Laf did my hair like a Disney princess,” Alex mumbles under his breath, and Herc makes an unimpressed noise.

“I really don’t think that’s the insult you seem to think it is,” he says, and then huffs. “Alex I did not make you that suit for you to _ignore_ the way he looked at you, for Christ’ sake-”

“That’s not what I _meant,_ ” Alex says, somehow feels his eyes stinging again like he’s not made enough of a fucking idiot of himself tonight already, swallows down his rising nausea at having to confront the truth of this situation, because if there's one thing Alex has firsthand experience in, it’s the massive fucking difference between wanting to fuck someone and _wanting_ them. 

Alex has wanted to fuck plenty of people.

He’s never really _wanted_ anyone before. 

He’s perfectly aware that Jefferson wants to fuck him, on occasion. Alex is _there_ and _willing_ and their tastes align ridiculously fucking well and he _knows_ he looks _good,_ and he knows there isn’t a reason _not_ to take that moment of _tension relief_ in the middle of the day, but he knows, _he knows that doesn't mean-_

Alex has literally come face-to-face with Jefferson’s _type;_ elegant and chiseled and built and _tall_ in a way that makes Alex feel small and shitty just _describing_ the guy from the conference to Herc in choppy, stilted, muffled words, tall and polished and _polite._

Quite literally everything Alex is not.

_Nobody finds out about this-_

“I’m sorry, was it his ex he was frottingin the middle of a dance floor last week or was that you?” Herc asks flatly. "Didn't really seem like he gave a damn about anybody and everybody seeing _that,_ Alex."

Alex feels his face heat, shakes his head even though Hercules can’t see it. “It wasn’t like that-”

“Angelica requested they change the music because Peggy wanted to dump an _ice bucket_ on you,” Herc says. “Don’t tell me _it wasn’t like that._ ”

“Well _that’s_ a fuckin’ overreaction,” Alex grumbles, resolutely can’t think about the terrifying implication that when Herc said _everyone_ it really fucking sounds like he’d meant _literally everyone,_ can’t think about _that night_ even though that _is_ a fucking overreation because it _hadn’t_ been like that, he wouldn’t have- sure he’d maybe been a little less than _soft,_ maybe desperately _wanted_ to say _fuck it, let's skip the party_ \- 

“You’re wrong,” he has to reiterate as soon as he feels that fucking band tightening threateningly around his chest again, inhales sharp and jagged and repeats it to the both of them a few more times until it really sinks in. He hopes it's not lost on Herc that he doesn’t really mean about the dance, because Herc _is_ wrong, he’s wrong, he's wrong, he’s _wrong,_ he _has_ to be, because Alex is only half-sober and weepy and overwhelmed and doesn’t have it in him to process anything other than that, to _consider_ anything other, to ask himself whether he even _wants_ Herc to be wrong or not and everything is just _far too-_

He’s just wrong. He _has_ to be wrong. 

“Okay, okay,” Herc says, hushed and calming, like he maybe knows what Alex had meant, or like he maybe heard the wobbly, breaking-point inhale for what it was, or like maybe Alex has said the words a few more times than he realizes. “Okay, maybe I am. I don’t know him, after all.”

Alex nods, grateful even though where he feels like there should be relief there’s just more twisting unpleasantness in his gut, puts it down to alcohol and stress repeating on him, that and the violent spinning the room is still doing despite how little he's trying to move and instead tries to think about how much more even and steady he can hear his own breaths becoming the longer he doesn’t feel like he’s imminently about to be pushed off a cliff. 

It’s okay. It’s fine. Everything seems worse under the influence, he thinks. It will be better in the morning.

So he’s got...a minor _thing._ Which-

It’s fine. It’s _fine._ He'll deal with it. It's embarrassing, but he'll deal with it, and contrary to Alex’s studiously maintained external opinion, he knows now that Jefferson is not, in fact, an asshole. He’s not a cruel man, he wouldn’t...use it. The only thing currently resting on whether he _knows_ or not, is Alex’s own humiliation, his own blistering shame at letting that _confusion_ get the better of him and lull him into stupidity no matter how hard he'd been _trying_. That and his sex life, which is pretty fucking nonexistent right this very minute and apparently may become permanently so if Jefferson now decides he doesn’t want to fuck someone who might happen to misread it-

Oh _god,_ wait, what if this means Alex _can’t ever-_

“Can I tell you something?” Herc says into the quiet, derails Alex’s re-mounting, horrified tension, not much louder than a mumbling whisper, and Alex had honestly thought he’d fallen asleep, it's been long enough that he'd assumed he’d been alone with his thoughts, and he frowns. Then snorts weakly.

“Wait, what, like a bedtime story?”

“Shut up,” Herc grumbles. There’s an unerringly accurate flick to his ear, and Alex waves an ineffective hand to bat him away. “You know what, _yes._ Exactly. Like a bedtime story.”

He’s joking, Alex thinks, but his curiosity gets the better of him, even as he curses it for his predictability and if he's thinking about whatever Herc says then he doesn't have to think about tomorrow...or Monday. “Fine, shoot.”

“Do you remember when Gil and I first got together?” Herc says after a pause, and his voice is so, so quiet, like if he says it low enough Laf won’t hear him from over the hall and two rooms down, and Alex blinks muzzily at the blurry shadow in the dark next to him, because that is... _not_ anything like what he’d expected, if he’d been pushed to expect anything.

“Uh, yeah. _Obviously,_ ” Alex offers, because of course he does, because it had been almost a running joke. Because it _is_ a running joke; Herc’s adorable, naive obliviousness. They’d taken _bets,_ for god’s sake, actual honest-to-god wagers on when Hercules was going to realize that Laf didn’t parade around in his skimpiest clothes for anyone else, didn’t cuddle up so closely with anyone _else_ on movie night, didn’t so much as _date_ a single person for close to eighteen months until he finally _had,_ until he’d gone on an adorable Christmas date with a girl with blonde ringlets and hoop earrings and dimples in her cheeks purely in an idle effort to try and goad Herc into finally catching up and catching on. 

It hadn’t taken long, after that, granted.

“I knew he liked me the whole time,” Hercules says, careful and steady, but ringing with obvious honesty and Alex is struck with the odd sensation of his own understanding of the world being upended multiple times in one night. “-I just never made a move.”

His friend sounds like he’s in confessional, Alex thinks ridiculously; imagines Herc’s head bowed and his hands folded in his lap as he bares his truth, hushed and shrouded in darkness and only to Alex, but unburdening himself all the same as he answers Alex’s bewildered _why not_ with a far-too-genuine _I was scared,_ and Alex feels his veins freeze a little, stomach twisting as he swallows.

“I looked at him, and I knew he’d be _it,_ ” Herc admits. Alex feels him lift his arms, maybe slides them under his own head to cushion as it flows from him like a leaky faucet now he’s started. “He’d be the most important thing to me, one day, and that is... _a lot_ for a grown adult to deal with, let alone a confused teenager. I never understood how Gil did it so damn _easily,_ it seemed almost unbelievable, like he couldn’t possibly mean it, and _Christ,_ John fell _twice_ just in that space of time because he somehow does it like it’s going out of style but...all _love_ felt like back then was giving someone else power over the one thing I had control of. And if my most important thing was a _person_ then I didn’t get to be solely responsible for whether I lost it or not.”

Alex has to close his eyes; they hurt like a bitch, tears and tiredness and he thinks he’s getting faint or that alcohol is finally brushing a layer of sleep over him, just like a real fucking bedtime story, because his fingertips are cold and shaking against his stomach where he’s pressing them into his sides, tired, half-hearted pressure in his ears and his head as he nods slowly, sluggish, some semblance of a sign that he’s still awake and listening, still bearing witness to the admission, to Herc levelling out the playing field of their friendship, offering up a vulnerability of his own while Alex’s snot and tears dry crusty on his sleep shirt. 

Herc tilts his head; must do, because when he speaks next his voice is closer to Alex’s ear, pitched lower for the nearness of it washing steadily, calmly over him. “It’s fucking _scary,_ letting someone have a part of you and walk around with it, not getting a say in whether they keep it safe, whether they make you happy, or sad, or whether they even keep it at all. You know what I mean?”

Alex gets it, he does. While not exactly the same, he knows their backgrounds are similar, their childhoods differing but the effects the same, knows they’ve always been the touchy ones, scrimping and saving here and there and counting down to the dimes and quarters every month even though it’s not nearly necessary any more, cautious and careful and protective of everything _theirs_ in a way that only _not having a lot_ really leaves a person. Of course he'd been the same with his heart.

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Alex murmurs back, too hazy and wiped to offer the solidarity he thinks is needed but wanting to all the same, thinks he feels his comforter pulled up tight around his chin. “S’ok Herc. Nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

“Nothing at all,” Hercules agrees quietly, and definitely adjusts Alex’s pillow under his head, and he wants to protest; he doesn’t need _fussing,_ but it’s...nice and he’s had a shitty, _shitty_ night and so he doesn’t, for once. For once he takes the comfort and settles into it with a sigh. “Totally understandable. Totally normal, you hear?”

Alex thinks he maybe nods again.  
  
  


* * *

_[H.M] -_ I’m going to stay here for a bit  
 _[Gil] -_ bien sûr, mon coeur  
 _[Gil] -_ Is he alright?  
 _[H.M] -_ I think so  
 _[H.M] -_ He’s an idiot  
 _[H.M] -_ I hope you’re right about Jefferson  
 _[Gil] -_ J'ai raison  
 _[Gil] -_ Thomas will be good for him  
 _[H.M] -_ If he ever gets there

* * *

From: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
To: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
Subject: SciAir Bid

Morning,

I’m aiming to submit the bid by the end of today, could you please review and return with any final comments at your earliest convenience.

Appreciate your assistance on this.

All the best,  
T. Jefferson  
Director of Operations  
Washington Industries

* * *

Moving on and pretending it never happened, that he never lost his mind and thought it was a good idea to kiss his colleague - _fuck buddy…frenemy-with-benefits…friend…whatever_ \- in the middle of the goddamn street on a whim, _just because,_ is absolutely the smartest thing to do. It’s the best thing for his sanity, for his working relationship with Jefferson, for his ability to get over this _thing,_ for his _stress,_ and exactly, _exactly_ what Alex intends to do on Monday morning in an attempt to get out ahead of the situation and gain some semblance of control over it, a desperate bid to _forget-_

It’s set. That’s his plan. He _needs_ that equilibrium. 

And so he doesn’t at all understand why, _for the love of god,_ when Jefferson does that very thing first, nice and early and well before Alex can, buries it deep and covers it over in _work_ to reset the status quo, he’s not in the least bit reassured or eased. 

Actually, he fucking hates it. 

It’s truly ridiculous, the feeling like his anxious insides have been scooped out and replaced with some horrible combination of lead weights and cockroaches, because the sinking, horrible, gut-punch confirmation that Jefferson has very definitively drawn a line under that incident and resolved to start afresh and focusing on work, the underlying, obvious _the less said about that the better_ clear as a fucking _bell,_ should be _exactly_ what Alex needs to read to settle his nerves, to recenter himself and be able to look the guy in the eye ever again. 

And yet, it ruins his day. 

At seven thirty in the fucking morning. 

He’s not an idiot, he knows he can’t put the foul mood he drives himself into down to anything else, considering it starts so early and so otherwise unprompted, bitter and foul in his mouth in a way that only _disappointment_ really tastes, and he’s maybe not felt it this way before, piercing and sharp and stinging, but there’s no mistaking it, which is stupid, _so fucking stupid,_ because he’d been going to do the same damn thing, and because _he’d known full well Herc was wrong_ and because Alex hadn’t even _wanted-_

Nevertheless, he’s cranky and resentful all damn day, doesn’t reply to Jefferson’s email purely out of spite, locks his door and tells Lucas he’ll give the kid a raise if he manages to keep so much as one person from fucking _knocking_ on it, spends most of the morning pretending he’s not licking wounds he didn’t even realize he had and most of the afternoon wandering around visiting other people’s offices, considering he’d seen Jefferson heading in the direction of _his_ as Alex had been coming back from the staff lounge with his mid-afternoon coffee in hand and had promptly turned on his heel and dived in the opposite direction, because _fuck that._

Speaking with Wilkinson almost lightens his mood; _almost,_ because he seems ridiculously amenable to the idea of presenting Alex’s proposal. Alex doesn’t even need to offer the kid anything; he’s apparently far too naively happy to have had all of the work done for him that he doesn’t seem to realize that if Alex has somehow _misjudged_ the situation then that error will be attributed to _him._ Alex nearly feels bad, almost points out to the guy that while he _hasn’t_ fucked this up - _Alex does nothing of the sort, ever_ \- he should probably be a little more wary of taking people’s word for it, except then Wilkinson throws out _Jefferson was telling me this morning how much better the prospects are if we do this, it sounds good_ and Alex sours again immediately. His skin prickles with irritation and he hates the creeping, pervasive feeling that he owes something to this guy _he can’t seem to get the fuck away from,_ so much so that he _almost_ wants to snatch the proposal back and buy Fredericks’ place instead out of pure contrariness, damn the consequences.

Except then he remembers Washington’s explicit instruction and the gross, slick feeling of watery eyes on his mouth like they have any right to be there and grinds his teeth as he smiles, instead.

John kicks him unceremoniously out of the IT department after less than half an hour in there, telling him to _stop terrorizing my minions and take your bullshit somewhere else,_ which Alex thinks is a bit fucking harsh, actually, considering he’s very generously _not_ been mentioning or asking about the blossoming jawline bruise that his friend has been sporting since he’d emerged, crashed and grumpy, from his room sometime on Satruday evening, but _whatever,_ and it’s not until Burr breaks his recent waspishness to ask, almost reasonably sincerely _has something upset you, Alexander_ that he finally beats a hasty retreat back to his own office, because he doesn’t want anyone misreading his _stinging annoyance_ as anything close to _upset._

He’s _not_ upset. 

That would be _ridiculous._

Jefferson’s done exactly what Alex was planning to.

Alex has gotten exactly what he’d wanted; to be able to ignore it and move past it. 

Being upset about that would make absolutely no sense. 

And so he isn’t. He can’t be. 

It’s that sentiment that he clings to as he buries himself in his work, purposefully has his stock updates read aloud in one ear at the same time as he’s writing up a report on something else entirely, purely to ensure that through trying to balance the two he has absolutely no concentration to spare for anything else. 

It works. Until it doesn’t. 

There’s an obnoxiously loud rapping at his locked door, and he’s just about to pick up his phone to call through and tell Lucas how utterly and fucking completely he’s failed at his job when he realizes it’s actually after six and recognizes his own massive oversight at not registering how open he’s left himself to ambush now that his assistant has most definitely escaped for the evening, and in all honesty he briefly considers turning off his light and just outright pretending he’s not in there.

“As if you’ve taken all day to review one document,” Jefferson huffs, the second Alex gives in, purely for the sake of anybody else still at work at this hour and surely being disturbed.

“As if you need _my_ help to do _your_ job,” Alex retorts, folds his arms defensively over his chest and stares down the incredulous frown he’s fixed with. He’s nowhere near ready to let go of his mood; bubbling in his chest like boiling water, even as it wavers and wanes a little in the face of the flippy, turned-over thing his stomach does at being corralled back into the room and having the door shut with a bang that echoes through his bones. He _wants_ to piss Jefferson off, cornered in his own office and trying not to back away, because arguing, yelling, _screaming_ at each other he can deal with just fine, as long as he doesn’t-

“Oh yes, heaven forbid I value your opinion,” Jefferson snarks flatly, still advancing, cuts a weirdly imposing figure, tall and smart and almost looming, face serious and Alex suddenly doesn’t know what he aimed to gain from holding out on reviewing the bid besides satisfying his own petty maliciousness, that motivation all-at-once seeming pitifully insufficient. “Besides, I thought we had an agreement.”

“I _helped_ didn’t I? If that’s not enough for you then _don’t_ approve the damn proposal on Friday, see if I care-"

Jefferson blinks at him like he’s grown a second head, sprouted at random from his shoulder and takes another single step forward, confused. “ _No,_ that’s not what I- of _course_ I’m going to-”

“Look, I’ve had shit to do, alright?” Alex snaps, even though he’s lying through his fucking teeth, that niggling urge to push this into a fight for his own self-preservation overwhelming him. “Handholding you through your boring bullshit is really not important to me.”

That's not a total lie, it _isn't_ exactly a field he’s particularly interested in, himself, except for the fact that he _does_ sort of care about the bid, now, all the fault of that same stupid, confusing feeling that has the obvious sting crossing Jefferson’s face making Alex feel so much worse instead of vindictively better for revisiting his own hurt on the person responsible, but at least he’s maybe finally tripped the switch into somewhat safer ground; goading and prodding until Jefferson snaps and they can just get it over with and start shouting-

“What’s wrong?” Jefferson says, careful and cautious instead of angry and explosive, and pulls him completely up short, because that’s not- he’s not supposed to-

“ _Nothing,_ ” Alex grits out, and reluctantly takes another step back and jumps as he hits a surface, because it’s _true,_ there shouldn’t be anything wrong, because he’s not about to say _I’m annoyed that you brushed me off before I could do it to myself,_ and because Burr had said _has something upset you_ and he _can’t_ have Jefferson thinking that same thing, doesn’t want to look any more pathetic than he already feels. 

“Bullshit,” Jefferson says, far too firmly, far too certain, and Alex starts to breathe a little more heavily, backed up against his own wall, doesn’t know what to do with his hands and balls them into tense fists at his sides. “Is this about Friday? Look, I didn’t think you’d want to-”

“I _don’t,_ ” Alex blurts, though it comes out more like a yelp, high and panicked and almost pleading because whatever Jefferson’s about to say, Alex is damn certain he _doesn’t_ want to. He doesn’t want _anything._ He doesn’t want to talk about it or why he’d done it, doesn’t want to think any more about it, or what it _means_ or _doesn’t mean,_ and he might not be _upset_ but he still doesn’t need to have that blatant rejection reiterated in person and in a stroke of either morbid stupidity or utter genius, he takes the only available route out that he can see and solves one collossal fuckup by repeating it almost exactly move-for-move; hands in soft suit lapels and tugging down, press of mouths and teeth in Jefferson’s bottom lip and he’s absolutely _fucked_ if Jefferson’s decided he doesn’t want to do this at all anymore but for once he’s finally lucky, because he doesn’t get pushed away, because they’re in private, and really, because what red-blooded human man turns down a most-likely-guaranteed, low-ramification blowjob when it practically throws itself at him, regardless of whether the person behind it may-or-may not have accidentally kissed you in the street three days ago?

Except it doesn't seem like it’s going to go down like that; sure, steady mouth moving against his and strong fist gripped tight in Alex’s hair, exactly the way he likes it except it still somehow feels more _cradling_ than _grabbing_ even though that shouldn’t be fucking possible with how it stings and although Alex is pressed hard into the wall Jefferson suddenly seems far too tall and overbearing, like he’s covering Alex like a fucking blanket, every inch of him taken over with the feel and the sight and the _smell_ of the guy, presence overwhelming until it’s almost _smothering_ him-

He can’t do this, Alex thinks abruptly, or he can’t do it _like this,_ at least. He can’t have Jefferson moving to hold his wrists behind his back with one hand that feels like it _should_ be mean and harsh for how rough and tight the grip is except it’s somehow _not at all_ and for the sake of them both he can’t _add_ to that mess growing inside of him, can't make it any worse than it already is, even if he _is_ resigned to doing this after two weeks of telling himself it’s a bad idea, because it’s _there_ and he _wants,_ and because even through his dread at the implication he’s ridiculously relieved at the feel of everything working the way it should; at the way he’s already hard and sticky, Jefferson’s firm thigh right up against where he needs it, at the pleasure and heat thick between his legs and in his belly, and at the involuntary, broken noises coming from his throat, doing his begging wordlessly until he’s pulled roughly from that place of enjoyment not by Jefferson moving back to murmur _it’s okay, it’s okay, I got you_ against his mouth but by his own instinctive unwinding at the promise, his own reflexive, answering sigh as he sinks into calmness causing him to tense right back up again because _this is not going to help him, he can’t-_

It’s better when he struggles; pulls petulantly, against the grip on his wrists and wriggles against the wall just to hear the disapproving growl and the nip of Jefferson’s teeth to his lip and they both know perfectly well that he could say _no,_ or _stop,_ or even their stupid safeword if he wanted to actually get away but he _doesn’t_ want to, not in the fucking slightest, is so fucking strung out and desperate he might actually come any fucking minute now, right in his pants rutting against hard muscle, but he _wants_ Jefferson sharp and stinging, _needs_ him annoyed and rough and incapable of _nice_ just for the sake of Alex’s own damn survival instincts. 

“ _Stop,_ ” Jefferson rumbles, and Alex _feels_ the word more against his chest and his lips than he hears it, ears mostly overwhelmed by the sound of his own ragged, whiny breathing and the unholy moan that gets pulled from his somewhere deep in his fucking soul at the hard, reprimanding tug on his hair. “Is _that_ what this is about? You being a shit on purpose?”

Alex is absolutely, utterly happy to let that be the general consensus; that he’s being an asshole and playing up and angling for a punishment because firstly, that sounds fucking fantastic and exactly what he _does_ need right now, and also because it’s far, far less embarrassing and far more on brand for him than the truth. He’s more than willing to murmur his own _fuck, fuck, yes, just-_ into the warm space between their faces and hitch his hips forward insistently instead of bothering to correct the assumption. 

“Why the fuck are we going backward, huh?” Jefferson grunts, somewhere around his ear, and he sounds frustrated as he squeezes Alex’s wrists once in warning to keep them still before he lets go, forces his leg tighter against Alex’s crotch like _that’s_ going to help him answer a question he doesn’t really understand. “How many times do I have to- _Christ,_ like you think I wouldn’t put you over my knee whenever you fucking wanted if you’d just _tell me._ ”

Alex genuinely isn’t sure whether it’s the following _is that what you want?_ or the sheer _thought_ of Jefferson tanning his ass red raw, or the shuddering, whimpering thing he can’t keep from doing at his pants being pulled open and down around his thighs - such a stark, glaring fucking contrast to the last time someone had tried to touch him that he wants to weep at it - that robs him of his last shred of give-a-fuck and has him nodding quickly against a stubbled cheek, because he does, he _does_ want that-

“I really don’t think you’re gonna make it that long, baby,” Jefferson murmurs, almost apologetic, moves to press his forehead to Alex’s, but he’s not looking at Alex, he’s looking down, dark-eyed and intent, and so Alex looks too; _watches_ as well as _feels_ dark-skinned knuckles brushing the length of his dick through his exposed boxers, stroking gently at the mess of darkened, stained fabric at the tip where he’s wet them right through, watches his own hips shaking violently in his effort to keep from straining into it and _god-fucking-dammit_ he’s _right,_ and Alex isn’t sure how two fucking weeks of subpar masturbation manages to feel like _five fucking years_ of abstinence but he’s already- he just needs-

He has to close his eyes. “Fuck, _fuck, please-_ ”

“What do you want?” The question is calm and soft and posed in that satisfied, _pleased_ thing Jefferson always gets when he’s managed to reduce Alex to _please_ without even being prompted, and he can almost picture the accompanying smile without having to look. It’s almost too _nice,_ too fucking patient, like Jefferson knows the answer even though _Alex_ fucking doesn’t, and he _hates_ that idea more than he can stand; that he’s somehow so easily predictable in a way he himself can’t manage to parse out, and yet there’s a horrible fucking peace that comes with it, with knowing whatever the fuck comes out of his mouth is somewhat anticipated, predetermined even if not by him, even if it’s just what he ends up managing to stutter; _just fucking touch me, please, fuck, please, please Thomas-_

He almost doesn’t hear Jefferson’s breath catch, or the ragged, low, _there, that’s all you have to do, just tell me_ over the sound of his own relieved sobbing when that fucking hand finally slips inside his underwear and wraps around him, and _fuck, fuck, fuck,_ Jefferson had been absolutely fucking right; he’s about to fucking humiliate himself with how close he is already, all the agitation and uncertainty and grossness coiling in his gut and egging him higher and higher, the firm stroke of Jefferson’s hand tighter and harder and rougher than normal and too-hard, really, verging on painful, and it’s _perfect,_ centers him completely on absolutely nothing but the feel of that and the pulling on his hair and it’s exactly what he needs, except it’s _not,_ he realizes, at the very last fucking minute, because Jefferson’s not supposed to be swallowing Alex’s whines and whimpers with his own mouth instead of smothering them with his fingers, not supposed to be pressing his own appreciation back in response, all reverent _Christ, look at how wet you are_ and _that's it, come for me_ against his lips-

He’s supposed to be _mad._ He’s supposed to be _pissed,_ he _has_ to be, because when he’s done, when Alex has bitten down on Jefferson’s bottom lip instead of his own and sobbed out his orgasm, Jefferson isn’t supposed to still want to stroke through his hair, or cup his neck and thread fingers into the wisps at his nape, or press his lips to Alex’s forehead-

“ _No,_ ” he says, low and rough when Alex goes to sink to his knees, partly because his legs are almost too flimsy to hold him up, but mostly just to get away from his face so close to Alex’s more than anything else, holds him steady despite his wobbles, lets go of Alex’s neck to bring one of his hands from behind his back to press it against where he’s still impossibly hard. “Just like this. I want your hand.”

And really, who the fuck is Alex to argue with such a fucking succinct demand, flushing in chagrin at his own, needy, _just fucking touch me_ in comparison but Jefferson doesn’t seem to mind, and he doesn’t seem to mind either when Alex slicks up his shaking hand with the mess on Jefferson’s own; by far not the safest practice but he’s swallowed Jefferson down more times than he can count now, and if the guy has a fucking problem with it Alex is sure he’d verbally object but he doesn’t, quite the opposite, actually, groans low in his chest and his eyes flutter closed as Alex touches him, tight and slow and steady.

He thinks of Jefferson’s casual mention of morning sex; languid and chill and lazy and how it had sounded like he _relished_ the idea, how it had sounded like he wants it like that, long and drawn out and nothing like the _wham, bam, thank you ma'am_ Alex is used to giving and getting. He’s struck with the urge to give it here, though, because if he is going to be giving, for once, instead of letting Jefferson take his own pleasure however he wants to, then he’s going to give it _right,_ make it _good,_ even if it does all feel like a bit _too much,_ pinned and enclosed in a little Jefferson-cocoon, the guy’s hands splayed out against the wall either side of Alex’s head, noses mashed together and inhaling each and every one of Jefferson’s rough grunts and groans and _that’s it, baby_ ’s as Alex slowly works him over until he’s not sure which of them is breathing more heavily, until Alex’s eyes sting, for some stupid fucking reason, until Jefferson comes, shuddering and wet and pulsing warm over Alex’s hand and hearing his own name breathed against his lips, _Alex, Alex, fuck, yes-_ somehow has him more flayed open than his own fucking orgasm, blinking and shaking and _hurting_ somewhere deep like _he’s_ the one thirty seconds post-climax and not Jefferson, who has to eventually put himself together and wipe Alex’s trembling hand down for him because he’s still stupefied, can’t work past the feeling that he’s just done exactly what he’d been adamantly trying not to do, _made it so much worse,_ because it’s far too fucking easy to take the warmth of a hand slipped into his hair with nothing but a sigh instead of a protest and-

“You want a ride home?” Jefferson asks, and Alex wants to say no, _wants_ to pull himself together and get the fuck out of there as quickly as he possibly can just as much as he wants to curl into that hand now stroking down the back of his neck, or maybe _because_ of how much he wants to do that, he’s not really sure. Except he's _tired,_ exhausted, really, and his legs won’t exactly cooperate and he’s still shaking and shivering slightly and his eyes hurt and his chest hurts and there’s an empty, painful space inside him somewhere that hurts as well, like he's just this bag of raw, open nerves and the longer he stands there a little blankly, arms wrapped around himself and trying not to lean into the slow, comforting passes of fingers stroking along his waist, under his shirt, the more Jefferson looks like he’s going to make the decision by himself, face going set and determined and decided. “I’m going to drive you home, okay?”

Against all his better instincts, Alex closes his eyes, holds his breath for a long minute, and then nods.

* * *

From: A.Hamilton@washindustries.com  
To: T.Jefferson@washindustries.com  
Subject: RE: SciAir Bid

I've amended with notes you should probably address prior to submission.

Aside from those, if you're still not going to take my tagline suggestion at all seriously, then I suppose it looks fine to me.

Good luck,  
A.Ham

* * *

_[Jeffershit] -_ I'm not taglining it "The only Wright choice for you"  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ It's a contract bid, not an Adam Sandler movie  
 _[A.Ham] -_ For the last time; it's fun  
 _[A.Ham] -_ They might be fooled for a second into thinking you have a sense of humor  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ It's ridiculous  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Suit yourself  
 _[A.Ham] -_ Don't come crying to me when your bid's too plane to stand out  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ God just stop  
-  
-  
 _[Jeffershit] -_ I'd rather not look like I'm winging it  
 _[A.Ham] -_ I take it back, don't make jokes. It's weird 

* * *

“I think something’s bothering John,” Eliza says hurriedly, words tumbling out all at once, tugging absently on the sleeve of her sweater and getting right down to the business of why he’s been drawn out of his office at lunchtime with an unusual midday _[are you free for lunch?]_

It’s not like he’d _minded_ all that much. Although he’s not as _stung_ anymore and despite the fact that he’s managed to exchange a grand total of _three_ conversations and _zero_ handjobs with Jefferson in the last two days, he’s still feeling a little off balance, trying like mad to claw himself back to anything remotely like _stable ground,_ and any excuse to put himself as far away as possible from having to come face-on with the whole mess he’s brewed up inside his own gut is to be jumped on, because he’s starting to think he doesn’t actually have it in him to _not_ get on his knees if Jefferson were to ask him to, _tell him to,_ even knowing how fucking bad of an idea it is, even knowing how that's not going to help him keep that line from blurring any more, and he doesn’t know when the fuck he got so damn _self-sabotaging_ but he doesn't like it.

So any excuse to keep himself from doing just that is very much appreciated, in whatever form it takes.

Still, in the face of _that_ statement, Alex frowns and glances up, warily eyes her concerned face and immediately shakes his head in resolute denial.

“No,” he says firmly, adamant even as she reaches for his hand across the tiny coffee shop table. “Absolutely not. I’m sorry, Bets, but there’s no way I’m getting in the middle of whatever this is, and frankly I’m a little-”

“I don’t need to know what it is,” she adds quickly. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that to him. I just- something’s wrong, Alex, and he won’t admit it and I _hate_ it, just talk to him, would you. He’ll talk to you, you know he will-”

He fucking hates seeing Eliza upset. It’s so damn atypical, feels so _unnatural_ for her to be sat here, mouth-downturned and wringing her hands. He knows he’s going to give in before he does it, and annoyingly, he thinks she does too, because she squeezes his hand and nods and puts hers back in her lap before he’s even fucking spoken. Even so, he can’t help screwing his face up in futile, obvious protest for a few seconds before throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Fine, _fine._ Why are you so sure?”

“We were going to- well,” she flushes, but steels herself quickly and meets his gaze. “-to go a little more public. After Angelica’s party maybe, but then he got a call from his father about coming up here next month and he changed his mind out of nowhere. I know they’ve never…gotten along but he’s not usually this _bothered_ by a visit, and going out and doing more of his-”

She makes a vague gesture that actually, having been friends with the both of them for so long - _and having seen John’s bruised up face this weekend_ \- Alex can interpret reasonably successfully as _going out and getting fucked up_ and her words, coupled with her anguished face and the determination as she speaks, confirm two very separate, unrelated things for him at the exact same time. _One,_ that Eliza definitely knows full well that Alex is up to speed on whatever it is she has going on with John, and _two;_ that Hercules had been absolutely right the other night. Not that _anything_ Herc had said has been playing on his mind, or anything of the sort. Not at all. It’s just that he’s reminded of it right now. Herc’s hushed words in the dark at stupid o’clock in the morning are reinforced and personified in front of Alex as they speak; Eliza’s upset because _John_ is upset. Not just concerned, or worried, or curious; she’s _upset_ and driven to twisting her fingers into complicated knots on the table in between them, miserable over something that has absolutely nothing to do with her, her happiness absolutely obscured because John’s feeling shitty, _being_ shitty, John has _that_ much influence over her and how the hell is it so easy for her to sit there and accept that? 

Not just to accept it, but to invite that weakness, willingly. To trust it won’t be abused.

“What if it’s nothing to do with you?” he asks, because it’s not, because John’s daddy issues have a life of their own and because Alex already thinks he knows damn well what his fucking problem is and his problem is that he’s being childish. “You know it’s not, right? You know he’s probably just running around being an asshole without thinking about anyone else, don’t you?”

“I know,” Eliza says, with a confidence he’s in awe of, tearing her pastry into tiny, bite-sized pieces on the plate in front of her for something to do with her nervous hands, seemingly at least a little more relaxed either now that Alex has acknowledged his willingness to interfere and she looks up with a small, grateful smile that dissipates the last of his lingering bitterness at being inserted into their relationship in this way.

Still, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t use the opportunity to try and understand. He doesn't know why dissecting her motivation is suddenly so fucking important to him, why he feels like he _needs_ to understand her, or her choices that have absolutely fuck all to do with him but he does, and that sudden, unsettling, bewildering _need_ and the frustration at understanding neither her, nor himself, makes him scowl. 

“Then I don’t know why you care so much,” he tells her, bluntly. “It’s not you, and you know it, so why are you so bothered by it? Why put yourself in a position to get so upset about it?”

“Because,” she says, which is no fucking answer at all, but the small smile blossoms into a larger one, a more peaceful one, a smile that he’s never seen on her before and it pulls him up short. “I want him to be happy.”

“Even if wanting it keeps _you_ from being happy?" Alex asks, bemused, and Eliza giggles, even though he’s pretty sure what he’s just said is really fucking depressing, and nowhere near _funny._

“Yes, I suppose," she allows eventually, and shrugs, pops a bite of pastry between her lips with a hum and regards him across the table with a considering look while her mouth moves around it, smiles kindly like she's recognized his questioning for what it is and not him deliberately being an asshole. "-but there's a trade off there that's just worth it, Alex. You get more than you give, you know?"

He wonders, morbidly, probably a little horribly, actually, how _upset_ she’d be if John were to break it off with her. Whether she’d still think it were _worth_ _it,_ then, to care this damn much about what another person thinks, or does, or _feels,_ if they didn’t want to keep _her_ happy anymore, until he realizes that as long as he’s known her she’s never had a person _not_ want to keep her before. Never had someone look at her face, or who she is, or where she’s come from, or _who_ she’s come from and decide they don’t want her. For a job, for a friend, for a lover, for _family-_

"Okay," he says, even though he doesn't know, because maybe that's it, maybe it's naïveté, or some sort of assurance born of privilege, neither of which he's ever going to be able to understand fully and so he stops even trying to put himself in her shoes, because that way lies madness. He reaches for his own coffee instead. “Look, just give him until after this visit and let him deal with his dad. If he doesn’t get the fuck over it I’ll speak to him then, alright?” 

She blows him a kiss across the table. He picks up his own pastry and tries not to think about it anymore. 

* * *

He fails, of course.

* * *

“How’d you get over it?” Alex eventually finds himself blurting, gritting his teeth and staring fixedly at the shiny side of the toaster while Hercules jumps half out of his skin and whirls to face him, hot bag of freshly popped popcorn tumbling out of the microwave and hitting the floor with a _plop_ in his surprise.

“Fucking- _Jesus_ Alex, warn a guy,” he hisses, picks the bag up, steaming corner held gingerly between his thumb and forefinger and dumps it back on the sideboard while he hunts in the nearest cupboard for a bowl. “What did you say?”

Alex looks between him, casually emptying the bag and shaking a packet of extra salt over the bowl, and the half-open kitchen door to where he can hear Laf humming idly to himself along with the title music of whatever anime show he’s managed to talk Herc into watching with him tonight as it plays on the TV, steps in a little nearer before the welling pool of curiosity burning in his gut abandons him.

“I just wanted to know how you- how’d you…stop being scared? You said, the other night-” 

He’s been wondering about it all fucking afternoon. Ever since Eliza, actually, and he thinks it has to be the incompleteness of the thing bugging him, driving him to distraction wanting to know how it resolved, because even if he can't fathom Eliza's position on the subject of falling in love then he thinks he might at least be able to understand Herc's. He feels a little stupid; a child wanting to hear how his bedtime story would have finished if he'd not passed out before it did, but his mild shame is overwhelmed by the intrusive, niggling _need to know,_ because maybe finding out how Herc settled himself will stop the disquiet growing inside him at not understanding how _that_ became _this_ and in direct relation, then, how _Alex_ might _-_

His curiosity does give out on him eventually though, self-preservation and embarrassment overwhelming his desire, and it’s only the lingering remnants of that want that keep his feet planted where they are, instead of taking him back to the safety of his own room, but Herc’s face is already softening and he’s already glancing in the same direction Alex had, to the open kitchen door and then back again as he sets the bowl aside for a moment and smiles briefly, if a little sadly.

“I didn’t,” he replies, and to his credit he’s a lot quieter, Alex has to step in a bit to hear him, but when he _does_ catch the words he feels a little cheated, a little gutted at the redundancy of it, at how little _sense_ or _clarity_ it adds to the picture he’s weirdly set on trying to build for himself. 

“Great, thanks for that,” he says flatly. “Really glad I asked-”

Hercules grabs his sleeve as he goes to leave and tugs him closer until they’re shoulder-to-shoulder facing the sideboard, and Alex feels his face flush in humiliation at how fucking _disapointed_ he finds he is at the answer, even if he doesn’t completely understand why, because it’s _an_ answer, at least, but what sort of a bullshit story does _that_ make-

“It wasn’t that I stopped being scared,” Herc tells him seriously, quickly but hushed as Alex narrows his eyes at the rim of the popcorn bowl. “-but, I mean, you know, you were there. He went out with that girl and even though I knew it then, that he wasn’t serious about it, that he was probably just looking for a reaction from me, I just-” he pauses, shakes his head and shrugs. Alex feels the movement against his arm. “I realized that one day, he wouldn’t be. One day he’d say _yes_ to someone that asked him, and he’d be serious enough about it, and he’d be gone. I’d miss my chance. I imagined what would happen if I just...kept ignoring it for the sake of my own sanity and I realized that… _that_ was a whole lot scarier. That’s all.”

To his credit, Herc’s always been the level-headed, lowkey one of them all, and so he doesn’t push, just waits while Alex processes, while he helps himself to a few kernels even though they’re a weird combination of salty and bland and gross and make him pull a face, but it gives him something to do with his shaky hands so that he’s not just stood stock still in silence trying to work out how he feels about this information. “I- right. Right. Okay.”

When he looks up, Herc nods at him, far too kindly considering Alex has basically just ambushed him mid-weekday-date to interrogate him about his exact emotional state nearly eight fucking years ago, but he’s good like that, and so he squeezes Alex’s shoulder, too. 

“I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you that I was brave like those two, that I found a foolproof way to stop being scared and just throw my all in, but I didn’t. I _was._ Just of something else even more in the end. I was still a coward, Alex.”

He looks almost embarrassed, and Alex immediately shakes his own head in denial, because chastising and self-recrimination look terrible on his friend, especially when it’s not fucking true, because it’s _not,_ not forever ago and not _now,_ not when he’s capable of standing here in front of Alex and baring himself in a way that both amazes and terrifies Alex somewhere deep, deep down, and because that’s really _not_ how cowardice works, he’s pretty sure of that, at least. 

“You’re not a fucking coward,” he says, vehement. “Feeling the fear and doing it anyway. _That’s_ bravery. Isn’t that what all those shitty fucking motivational quotes always say?”

Herc smiles, wider and brighter this time, fond and unexpectedly affectionate, and he ruffles Alex’s hair with one hand as he picks up the bowl with the other until Alex ducks away out of reach. “I guess that makes you and I the brave ones instead then, huh?”

“But,” Alex protests, frowns after his retreating friend. “-wait, no. What?”

Herc ignores him, just picks up a bottle of wine in his spare hand and salutes him with it, knocks the kitchen door open with his hip and leaves Alex floundering alone with objections he wouldn’t have voiced, even if he’d been given time to; 

_But I haven’t even done anything._

_But I’m not brave._ _I don’t even know if I want to be._

_But how do I-_

Well.

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> qu'est-ce qui ne va pas chéri? / what's wrong honey?  
> bien sûr, mon coeur / of course, my heart  
> J'ai raison / I am right  
> ~  
> (A minor apology to anyone who saw my prediction that this would be posted a whole damn week ago; something about parts of it just weren't reading right to me and so I spent a while rejigging them until I was happier. In my opinion, and in the grand scheme of things I feel like this is an important chapter in terms of Alex reaching the peak of losing his shit and slowly turning a corner, and so I wanted to make sure it was as good as I could get it before posting. Or at least to the stage where I can't pinpoint what exactly about it I don't like anymore, and then have to assume it's my own nitpicky-ness at that point and post anyway, ha.)  
> ~  
> Also just a heartfelt note to say _thank you_ for every single one of your comments. I really do appreciate them. Every time I wanted to bang my head against a wall writing this chapter (which was a lot of times, Alex is frustrating af) I was looking back at them for motivation, and I just wanted to put that out there. They do matter, and I love them and thank you.  
> ~  
> Also also, this one just about killed me. I know y'all love the long chapters but ISTG ch10 is lining up to be a cute lil' 10k thing and I'm not even sorry. Who needs consistency? (Yes, I said 10 and I meant 10, because 9 is hella long even not being finished haha argh.)


End file.
